ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of All the Way to Fairyland, by Evelyn SharpThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: All the Way to Fairyland       Fairy StoriesAuthor: Evelyn SharpIllustrator: Mrs. Percy DearmerReleaseDate: November 3, 2009 [EBook #30400]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THE WAY TO FAIRYLAND ***Produced by Al Haines[Illustration: Cover art]All the Way toFairylandFairy StoriesBYEVELYN SHARPAUTHOR OF "WYMPS"WITH EIGHT COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONSAND A COVER BY MRS. PERCY DEARMERJOHN LANETHE BODLEY HEADLONDON AND NEW YORK1898COPYRIGHT,1897, BYJOHN LANE.FIRST EDITIONUniversity Press:JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A._By the Same author:_WYMPS: FAIRY TALES.  With eight coloured illustrations by Mrs. PercyDearmer.THE MAKING OFA SCHOOLGIRL.AT THE RELTON ARMS.THE MAKING OF A PRIG.[Illustration: A PRINCESS FLOATING ABOUT ON A SOFT WHITE CLOUD]THESE STORIESARE FORGEOFFREY AND CHRISTOPHERTRISTAN ANDISEULTMARGARET AND BOYANDEVERARDAND ALL THE OTHER CHILDRENWHO WOULD LIKE TO GOALL THE WAY TO FAIRYLANDContentsCHAPTER    I.  THE COUNTRY CALLED NONAMIA   II.  WHY THE WYMPSCRIED  III.  THE STORY OF HONEY AND SUNNY   IV.  THE LITTLE PRINCESS AND THE POET    V.  THE WONDERFUL TOYMAKER   VI.  THE PROFESSOR OF PRACTICAL JOKES  VII.  THE DOLL THAT CAME STRAIGHTFROM FAIRYLAND VIII.  THOSE WYMPS AGAIN!List of IllustrationsBY MRS. PERCY DEARMER    I.  A PRINCESS FLOATING ABOUT ON A SOFT WHITE CLOUD . _Frontispiece_   II.  THE WYMPS SAY THAT QUEER BEGANIT  III.  SUNNY WAS SO ASTONISHED THAT SHE STOPPED CRYING AT ONCE   IV.  "COME WITH ME, POET," SAID THE LITTLE PRINCESS    V.  THE ROCKING-HORSES RUSHED OVER THE GROUND   VI.  HE CURLEDHIMSELF UP IN THE SUN AND CLOSED HIS EYES  VII.  THE LADY EMMELINA IS ALWAYS KEPT IN HER PROPER PLACE NOW VIII.  "WILL YOU COME AND PLAY WITH ME, LITTLE WISDOM?"The Country CalledNonamiaEver so long ago, in the wonderful country of Nonamia, there lived anabsent-minded magician.  It is not usual, of course, for a magician tobe absent-minded; but then, if it were usual it would not havehappenedin Nonamia.  Nobody knew very much about this particular magician, forhe lived in his castle in the air, and it is not easy to visit any onewho lives in the air.  He did not want to be visited, however;visitorsalways meant conversation, and he could not endure conversation.  This,by the way, was not surprising, for he was so absent-minded that healways forgot the end of his sentence before he was half-waythroughthe beginning of it; and as for his visitors' remarks--well, if he hadhad any visitors, he would never have heard their remarks at all.  So,when some one did call on him, one day,--and that was when he hadbeenliving in his castle in the air for seven hundred and seventy-sevenyears and had almost forgotten who he was and why he was there,--themagician was so astonished that he could not think of anything to say."Howdid you get here?" he asked at last; for even an absent-mindedmagician cannot remain altogether silent, when he looks out of hiscastle in the air and sees a Princess in a gold and silver frock, witha bright little crown onher head, floating about on a soft white cloud."Well, I just came, that's all," answered the Princess, with aparticularly friendly smile.  "You see, I have never been able to findmy own castle in the air, so when the WestWind told me about yours Iasked him to blow me here.  May I come in and see what it is like?""Certainly not," said the magician, hastily.  "It is not like anything;and even if it were, I should not let you come in.  Don'tyou knowthat, if you were to enter another person's castle in the air, it wouldvanish away like a puff of smoke?""Oh, dear!" sighed the Princess.  "I did so want to know what a realcastle in the air was like.  I wonder ifyours is at all like mine!""Tell me about yours," said the magician.  "I may be able to help youto find it."  Of course, he only said this in order to prevent her fromcoming inside his own castle.  At the same time, a littleconversationwith a friendly Princess in a gold and silver gown is not at allunpleasant, when one has lived in a castle in the air for seven hundredand seventy-seven years."My castle in the air is much bigger than yours,"she explained.  "Ithas ever so many rooms in it,--a large room to laugh in and a smallroom to cry in--""To cry in?" interrupted the magician.  "Why, no one ever thinks ofcrying in a castle in the air!""One never knows,"answered the Princess, gravely.  "Supposing I wereto prick my finger, what should I do if there was n't a room to cry in?Then, there is a middling-sized room to be serious in; for there isjust a chance that I might wantto be serious sometimes, and it wouldbe as well to have a room, in case.""Perhaps it would," observed the magician, who had never listened soattentively to a conversation in the whole of his long life.  "Whatelse willyou have in your castle?""I shall have lots of nice books that end happily," answered thePrincess; "and they shall be talking books, so that I need not readthem to find out what they are about.  I shall have plenty ofhappythoughts in my castle, too, and lots of nice dreams piled up in heaps,and--well, there is just one thing more.""What is that?" asked the magician."Well, I think I should like to have a Prince in my castle, anicePrince, who would not want to be just dull and princely like all theprinces I have ever danced with, but a Prince who would like my castleexactly as I have built it and would play with me all day long.  Thatwould besomething like a Prince, wouldn't it?""You could not possibly have a Prince," said the magician.  "If youallowed some one else even to look into your castle in the air, itwould vanish away like a puff of smoke.  I havelived in my castle forseven hundred and seventy-seven years, and I have never allowed any oneto put a foot in it.""Is it so beautiful, then, your castle in the air?" asked the Princess,wonderingly."I'm sure I don't know,"said the absent-minded magician; "I don'tthink I ever noticed.  I came to live in it, because it was the onlyplace in which I could be left alone.  That reminds me, that if you donot go away at once I shall be obliged tobecome exceedingly angry withyou.""By all means," said the Princess, who had the most charming manners inthe world; "but I should like to have my castle first.""I have n't got it here," said the magician, lookingabout him vaguely."I know I saw it somewhere not long ago, but I can't remember what Idid with it.  However, if you ask the people of Nonamia, they will beable to tell you where it has gone.  You will find that they areveryobliging.""Will they not be surprised?" asked the Princess."Dear me, no!  The Nonamiacs are never surprised at anything," said themagician; and he drew in his head from the window.  The Princess in thegold andsilver frock sailed away on her cloud, and landed presently inthe flat, green country of Nonamia."Have you seen my castle in the air?" she asked, very politely, of thefirst Nonamiac she met."What is it like?" asked theNonamiac, without showing the leastsurprise."It is ever so large and ever so beautiful, and it is packed full ofhappiness, and there is a nice Prince inside," answered the Princess."Ah," said the Nonamiac; "then it mustbe the one I saw being blownalong by the South Wind.  But there was no Prince inside."The Princess thanked him and hastened away in the direction of theSouth Wind until she met another Nonamiac, to whom sheexplained aspolitely as before what she wanted to know."Ah," said the Nonamiac, "that must be the castle I met just now as itwas being carried off by the North Wind.  But I saw no Prince inside."The Princess turnedround and hurried after the North Wind as fast asshe could go.  As soon as she met another Nonamiac, however, she had toturn round once more, for he told her that her castle had just beenstolen by the East Wind;and when she had been walking quite a longtime in the direction of the East Wind, she met yet another Nonamiac,who told her that it was the West Wind who had taken away her castle inthe air."It is too bad!" said thelittle Princess, sitting down exhausted on alarge stone by the side of the road.  "Why should all the winds beplaying with my castle in the air?""Castles in the air generally go to the winds," observed a traveller ina dustybrown cloak, who was sitting on another large stone, not veryfar off.  She was quite sure he had not been there the moment before,but, in Nonamia, there was nothing remarkable about that.  The Princesswiped thetears out of her eyes with a small lace handkerchief, andlooked at the stranger."Mine is a very particular castle in the air, you see," she said.  "Itis ever so large and ever so beautiful, and it is packed with happinessanddreams, and _perhaps_ there is a Prince in it, too.""A Prince?" said the stranger.  "What sort of Prince?""A nice Prince," explained the Princess, "who can play games and tellstories and be amusing.  All the Princes Iknow can do nothing butdance, and they are not at all amusing.  I am afraid, though," sheadded, sighing, "that I am going to have my castle without a Prince,after all.""Would it do," asked the traveller in the dustybrown cloak, "if youwere to have a Prince without a castle?""Oh, no!" answered the Princess, decidedly.  "If you knew how beautifulmy castle in the air is, you would not even ask such a stupid question!"Then she againtook up her small lace handkerchief, and she brushed thedust from her gold and silver gown, and polished up her bright littlegold crown, and made herself as neat and dainty as a Princess shouldbe; for, in Nonamia, onenever knows what may happen next, and it isjust as well to be prepared.  And, in fact, no sooner was she quitetidy than the West Wind came hurrying along with her castle in the air;and the Princess gave a shout of joyand sprang inside it; and the WestWind blew, and blew, and blew, until the castle that was packed full ofhappiness, and the little Princess in the gold and silver gown, wereboth completely out of sight.  The travellerlooked after them and felta little forlorn; then he picked up his stick and walked on until hecame to the magician's castle.  This may seem a little surprising, ashe had no wings of any kind and the magician's castle wasin the air;but it must be remembered that it all happened in Nonamia."Dear, dear!  Here 's another of them!" grumbled the magician, when helooked out of his window and saw the stranger standing below.  Afterbeingalone for seven hundred and seventy-seven years, it was a littleexhausting to have two visitors on the same day.  Besides, a travellerin a dusty brown cloak is not at all the same thing as a daintyPrincess in a gold andsilver gown."Good-day," said the stranger.  "Are you the magician who has given acastle in the air to a Princess in a gold and silver frock with abright little crown on her head?""Very likely; but I cannot say for certain,"said the absent-mindedmagician.  "I believe there was something of the kind, now you come tomention it; but I could n't tell you what it was.  However, I don'tmean to give away any more castles in the air, so thesooner you leaveme alone, the better.""I don't want a castle in the air," laughed the stranger.  "People whospend their lives in building real houses never have time to buildcastles in the air!  _I_ want to find thePrincess, not the castle.""That you will never do as long as she is happy in it," said themagician.  "People who live in castles in the air are never to befound, unless they have grown tired of living in them.""Oho!"chuckled the stranger.  "Are _you_ tired of living in yours,then?"The absent-minded magician tried to determine whether he should beangry or not, when the stranger said this; but, by the time he had madeup his mindto be angry, he had forgotten what there was to be angryabout, and while he was thinking about it, the man in the dusty browncloak walked away and left him.Evidently, it was not very long before the Princess grewtired ofliving in her castle in the air, for the very next day, as thetraveller was once more resting on the large stone by the side of theroad, down she came, castle and all, and stopped just in front of him.Truly, there isno end to the wonderful things that happen in Nonamia!"Hullo!"  said  the  traveller,  smiling.  "What is it like inside yourcastle?""It is not half so nice as I expected to find it," said the Princess,popping her head out ofthe top window.  "You see, there is no one toplay with; and even if your castle is the most beautiful castle in theworld, it is always dull when there is no one to play with, isn't it?""I don't know," answered the stranger;"I have never had any one toplay with.  What else is wrong with your castle?""Well," continued the Princess, "it is all very well to have a castlethat is packed with happiness; but, when it is packed so tight thatyoucannot get it out without some one to help you, it is not much good, isit?""I don't know," answered the stranger; "my happiness has never beenpacked so tight as all that.  Have you anything else to complain of?""Agreat many things," said the Princess.  "It is all that stupidmagician's fault.  When I said, 'a small room to cry in,' I did n'treally mean a room to _cry_ in, did I?  But every way I turn, there isalways the room to cry in,staring me in the face!  I am sure there issomething seriously wrong with my castle in the air.""No doubt about it," said the traveller; "and it is clearly themagician's fault.""When you came to live in your castle in theair," continued thePrincess, plaintively, "did you find that it was very different fromthe one you had built?"The traveller in the dusty brown cloak burst out laughing."I have no time to build castles in the air," he said.  "Ibuild realhouses for other people to live in, people who would, perhaps, have nohouses at all if I did not build them.  That is more important thanbuilding castles in the air for one's self.""What are your real houses like?"asked the Princess."They are strong," answered the stranger, proudly.  "All the four windsjoined together could not blow them down.  No one has ever built suchstrong houses as mine.""Are they beautiful, too?" askedthe Princess."I have no time to look after that," answered the stranger.  "I buildmore houses than any one else in the world; and still, there are peoplewho are waiting for houses to live in.  I must build as fast as Ican,day after day, year after year.""Then why are you not building houses now?" asked the Princess.  Thegreat builder looked sorrowful."There is something wrong about my real houses, too," he confessed."The peoplewho live in them are never quite contented; and I have comeaway to think out a new plan by myself, so that the next houses I buildshall be the most wonderful houses in the world."The Princess leaned her chin on herhand, and looked quite thoughtfulfor a moment or two."May I come and help you to build real houses, for a change?" she saidpresently.  "I am dreadfully tired of building castles in the air thatdo not turn outproperly--though, of course, that was principally themagician's fault!  Still, if you were to show me the way, I might beable to build something real that would turn out properly; and thatwould be ever so much moreamusing.""It is not at all amusing," said the traveller, shaking his head.  "Youwould soon grow tired of it; besides, you would have no Prince to playwith.""I don't think I want a Prince to play with," said thecharmingPrincess in the gold and silver frock.  "He might turn out to be asdull as my castle in the air, especially if the magician had anythingto do with it!  I would much sooner come and help you to buildrealhouses."The traveller in the dusty brown cloak still shook his head."Little ladies in gold and silver gowns can only build castles in theair," he said."Do the people who live in your houses never build castles in theair?"asked the Princess."I never thought of asking them," answered the great builder.  "I havebeen too much occupied in building their real houses.""Then let us go and ask them now," said the Princess; and she camedownfrom her castle in the air, and stepped once more on to the dusty road,and held out her little white hand to the traveller.  Her castle in theair vanished like a puff of smoke the moment she stepped out of it."Whatwould be the use of that?" asked the traveller, smiling.  He tookthe little white hand, however, for no one could have refused that muchto such a very charming Princess."Why," said the Princess in the gold and silverfrock, "then we couldmake their real houses just like their castles in the air; and onlythink how packed with happiness they would be!"The traveller looked at her in amazement.  It was certainly astonishingthat so greata builder as he should find out what was wrong with hishouses, from a Princess with a bright little crown on her head who hadnever done anything but build castles in the air.  Still, we mustremember that it allhappened in Nonamia; and that accounts for a greatdeal."You are quite right," said the traveller; "you know far more about itthan I do.  You shall come and help me to build real houses, and theyshall be the mostwonderful houses that have ever been built.""All beautiful to look at, and packed with happiness inside!" cried thedainty little Princess, clapping her hands for joy.  "And we won't letthat stupid magician spoil our realhouses, will we?"The magician was looking out of his window at nothing at all, when theycame past his castle, hand in hand."We are going to build the most wonderful houses in the world," criedthe Princess,--"ever somuch more wonderful than the stupid castle inthe air you gave _me_!"This was not very gracious of her, for, after all, the magician hadgiven her exactly what she had built for herself.  However, as he hadalreadyforgotten both of them and could not think of anything to say,and as they were in too great a hurry to stay and help him, there isnothing more to be said about the magician, except that he is stillliving in his castle inthe air and looking out of his window atnothing at all, which is a right and proper occupation for a magicianwho is absent-minded.  As for the traveller and the charming Princess,they spent the rest of their days inbuilding the most wonderful housesin the world for the people who had nowhere to live.  And as for thepeople who had nowhere to live, it was only natural that they shouldall find their way to the country calledNonamia, where a little ladyin a gold and silver gown taught them to build a castle in the air, anda great builder in a dusty brown cloak made it into a real house thatwas packed with happiness.It is a little difficult tobelieve that this is all true; but then, itmust be remembered that it all happened in Nonamia, ever so long ago![Illustration: THE WYMPS SAY THAT QUEER BEGAN IT]Why the Wymps CriedThe wymps and the fairieshave never been able to agree.  Nobody quiteknows why, though the Fairy Queen, who is the wisest person in thewhole world, was once heard to say that jealousy had something to dowith it.  The fairies say, however,that they would never dream ofbeing jealous of people who live at the back of the sun and do not knowmanners; while the wymps say it would be absurd to be jealous of anyone who lives at the front of the sun andcannot take a joke.  All thesame, the Fairy Queen is always right, so somebody must certainly bejealous of somebody; and it is well known that if the wymps and thefairies are invited to the same party, it is sure to endin a quarrel.It is really a wonder that the Fairy Queen has not lost patience withthe wymps long ago; but people say that she has more affection for hernaughty little subjects at the back of the sun than any onewouldimagine; and the Fairy Queen is so wonderful that it is quite possibleto believe this.Once, matters became so serious that there would have been a real war,if the Queen had not called an assembly of her subjectson thespot--which happened to be on the roof of a blacksmith's forge--andasked them what the fuss was all about."Please, your Majesty," said one fairy, half crying, "the wymps shut meup at the back of the sun forfifteen days, and they gave me nothing toeat, your Majesty; they said that if I couldn't take a joke I couldn'ttake anything.  And I should never _wish_ to take one of their jokes,please your Majesty.""Do not troubleabout that," said the Fairy Queen, gravely.  "For mypart, I shall never expect you to take a joke from any one.  Now,Capricious, what have they done to you?" she added, as another fairywith a round dimpled face cameforward in a great hurry."Please, your Majesty," began Capricious, trying to make a verycheerful voice sound extremely doleful, "I found a wymp in the nursery,after the children had gone to bed; and he was quite


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                             FROZEN RIVER                              Written by                             Courtney Hunt    FADEIN:1   EXT. INTERNATIONAL SEAWAY BRIDGE - DAY                      1    A sign reads "Bridge to Canada."    A steep 1940's era customs bridge arches over the St.    Lawrence River.    Cars and trucks lineup in different lanes. Customs    officials inspect and question impatient drivers.    Beyond them a smaller sign: "THANK YOU FOR VISITING    MASSENA NEW YORK, IT WORKS, for business, for family,for    you".2   EXT. BELOW THE BRIDGE - DAY                                 2    The river stretches for miles in either direction,    frozen, and still with trees on either side.3   EXT. RAY'S TRAILER YARD,MASSENA NEW YORK - DAY             3    RAY EDDY, 38, a bit worn for her years, with a long red    ponytail, wearing an old bathrobe, sits in the passenger    seat of her RED PLYMOUTH HORIZON with the dooropen,    smoking a cigarette, thinking. Her breath is visible in    the cold morning air.    Her bare feet rest on the cold ground.    Her 1970's rusted out TRAILER HOME SITS in front of her    on CINDER BLOCKS AT ASLIGHT TILT. Beside it, a small    SHED and behind it the CONCRETE FOUNDATION FOR A HOUSE.    Around her, the yard is littered with junk: a rusted ski    lift chair, the front end of a Plymouth Duster anda    SMILING DUCK Kiddie Ride.    Beyond the yard, flat, winterbare land.    After a moment, a lanky boy of 15, her son, TROY, JR.,    leans out the trailer door.                            T.J.               We're out ofCapt'n Crunch.    His breath is visible in the cold.                             RAY               Just give him toast.                                                         2.                       T.J.          We gotno butter, we got no jelly.Ray is out of ideas. He expects her to move, but shestays still. He looks around the yard.                       T.J. (CONT'D)          What are youdoing?                       RAY          Listening for the trucks.                       T.J.          Are they really coming?                         RAY          Yeah.                         T.J.          Where'sdad?She is silent.                       T.J. (CONT'D)                 (says it slow)          Where's dad?She looks at him.                       RAY          I don't know how he found it,T.J.                         T.J.          Found what?Ray takes a drag off her cigarette. T.J. walks over tothe car.                         T.J. (CONT'D)          The money?                       RAY          Ilocked it in my glove compartment.T.J. looks in at the OPEN AND EMPTY GLOVE COMPARTMENT.                       T.J.          That was stupid.                       RAY          Yeah, I see that now, but thetrucks were          coming before the bank opened.                                                      3.                       T.J.          Did you tell him you had it?                       RAY          Duh?No, I guess he just sniffed it out.                       T.J.          Jesus Christ! The glove compartment!?          That's the stupidest place you could have          put it.                       RAY          He hasn'tbought a scratch card in almost          thirty two months. I thought it would be          okay!                       T.J.          Did he leave anything?She shakes her head.                       T.J.(CONT'D)          What are you gonna do?                       RAY          Nothing.                       T.J.          You could look for him?                       RAY          He could beanywhere.                       T.J.          We should look for him.                       RAY          Where?                       T.J.          The Rez,                       RAY          With more than fourthousand dollars,          he's probably in Atlantic City by now.                       T.J.          So let's go, let's find him before he          blows itall.                       (CONT'D)                                                             4.                           RAY              I can't.                           T.J.              What do youmean?                           RAY              I just can't do it anymore.                           T.J.              But he'll lose it all.                           RAY              T.J., we can't make himstop.                           T.J.              He stole our money. Call the Troopers.                           RAY              It's not stealing if you take it from              your family. Anyway, he made some ofit,              too.                           T.J.              So you're just gonna sit there?                           RAY              I'm sorry.    In the distance the RUMBLE OF TRUCKS. Ray hears it. It    getslouder.                           T.J.              Another Christmas in the tin crapper.    T.J. goes into the shed and slams the door.    Ray throws down her cigarette and goes into the trailer.4   INT. RAY'S TRAILER- DAY                                      4    She looks around the cramped trailer at the oversized    RENTAWORLD furniture including a big screen TV.    An enlarged wall photograph of the family catches her    eye. In it,her husband, TROY, SR., 40, wearing a forced    smile, his long, shaggy hair combed flat for the picture.    Ray hurries down the hall to her bedroom and takes off    her bathrobe -- she has several tatoos -- and slidesinto    a pair or jeans and a t-shirt.                                                              5.    A sleepy-eyed, toe-headed boy, RICKY, 5, walks in,    shirtless in pajama bottoms, eyesshining.                            RICKY              Is it here?    Ray stops what she's doing when she sees him and kneels    down.                           RAY              Hey, little sleepyhead.                           RICKY              Is it here yet? `Cause I'm ready.    He drags a suitcase full of plastic dinosaurs around the    corner.    The RUMBLE OUTSIDE GROWS LOUDER. Ricky BOLTS out ofthe    bedroom and down the hall to the trailer door.                            RAY              Wait a sec-    He bursts into the yard where:5   EXT. RAY'S TRAILER - DAY                                       5    APICK-UP TRUCK DRAPED WITH A "WIDE LOAD" banner leads    TWO SEMIS hauling halves of a DOUBLE WIDE MOBILE HOME    wrapped in plastic, rippling in the wind.    Ricky stops at the massive sight, twisting at hisfly,    trying not to pee himself.    T.J. comes out of the shed.    The Doubles come to a stop and idle in the yard.    GUY VERSAILLES, pot-bellied, in a green velour running    suit, squeezes out of his truck. On the door:"MASSENA    MODULAR AND MOBILE HOMES, NEW AND RECONDITIONED."    Ricky grabs a rope hanging off one of the doubles and    tries to climb the side of it. The TRUCK DRIVER looks    down from hiscab.                           T.J.                     (to Ricky)              Get down.    Ray peeks out the kitchen curtain.                                                       6.After a moment she comes out of thetrailer, with apasted-on smile.                       RAY          We're all ready for ya'.She points to the new concrete foundation. He consults aclipboard.                       VERSAILLES          We'll need theballoon payment to unload.T.J. looks at Ray.                       RAY          We have it, it's just that they called          Troy from Titus last night. That's where          Troy works. The ski place? Andanyway-                       VERSAILLES          Have you got the $4,372 dollars or not?                       RAY          It was some emergency with the lifts. So          he took off without thinking withthe          money. Completely forgot you were coming.          So as soon as he gets back-                       VERSAILLES          When's he gonna be back?                       RAY          As soon as he canget here, I'll just run          it down to you.T.J. could crawl out of his skin.                       VERSAILLES                 (ironic smile)          This is the second time you've dragged me          out here. If you don'tcome up with it by          Christmas, you've lost your fifteen          hundred dollar deposit.He walks toward his car. She follows him.                       RAY          Look, Mr. Versales, I have a good job at          ALLFOR A DOLLAR. They're probably gonna          make me a manager after Christmas so I          can handle the payments if you just leave          the house-                                                         7.Hegets in the car.                       VERSAILLES          Call me when you have the balloon          payment.He makes a circle in the air with his hand and the semi'srev their engines and grind intoreverse.                       RAY          I'll call you...Her voice is DROWNED OUT by REVVING engines.Ricky rushes to her.                       RICKY          Wait, where are they going?She takes his face inher hands.                       RAY          Listen to me. We'll get them back.                       RICKY          But why are they leaving?                       RAY          Ricky, I'll get them back. Ipromise,          honey.                       RICKY          That's our house!He BREAKS AWAY from her and RUNS down the road chasingafter the semis. Ray chases after Ricky until he runs outof steam and stops,panting.She catches up to him and tries to hug him. He pushes heraway. She gets down on her knees and takes his face inher hands.                       RAY          We're gonna get it back.She picks him up andwalks back to the trailer. Rickylooks out mournfully at the trailers disappearing downthe road.                       RAY (CONT'D)                 (to T.J.)          You better hurry or you're going to miss          the bus.Let's get your clothes on,          Ricky.                                                           8.    T.J. just stares at her.                           T.J.              I can get a job youknow.                           RAY              You're 15, T.J.                           T.J.              They won't ask any questions.                           RAY              You're finishingschool.                           T.J.              Come on, you don't think we can live on              what you make at All for a Dollar do you?                           RAY              You're going to school.    She goesinside.   T.J. follows.                           T.J.              I bet I could make more than you do.    She ignores him.6   INT. RAY'S TRAILER - DAY                                    6    Ray helps Ricky into hisclothes and puts his backpack on    his back.                           RICKY              Where's daddy?    Ray and T.J. look at each other.                           RAY              He'll beback.                           T.J.              Aren't we even gonna look for him?                           RAY              No! I'm going to work and you're goingto              school.                            T.J.              That's it?                                                       9.                       RAY          The only thing that changed is that your          dad


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Felix Holt, The Radical, by George EliotThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/licenseTitle: Felix Holt, The RadicalAuthor: George EliotRelease Date: September 28, 2012 [EBook#40882]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL ***Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jane Robins and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net    [Illustration: ESTHER LYON.]    FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL    BY GEORGE ELIOT    Upon the midlands now the industrious muse doth fall,    The shires which we the heart of England well maycall.        *       *       *       *       *    My native country thou, which so brave spirits hast bred,    If there be virtues yet remaining in the earth,    Or any good of thine thou bred'st into my birth,    Accept it as thineown, whilst now I sing of thee,    Of all thy later brood the unworthiest though I be.                                           --DRAYTON; _Polyolbion_.    _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_    BOSTON    DE WOLFE, FISKE & COMPANY    361AND 365 WASHINGTON STREETFELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL.INTRODUCTION.Five-and-thirty years ago the glory had not yet departed from the oldcoach roads: the great roadside inns were still brilliant withwell-polishedtankards, the smiling glances of pretty barmaids, and therepartees of jocose hostlers; the mail still announced itself by themerry notes of the horn; the hedge-cutter or the rick-thatcher mightstill know the exact hourby the unfailing yet otherwise meteoricapparition of the pea-green Tally-ho or the yellow Independent; andelderly gentlemen in pony-chaises, quartering nervously to make way forthe rolling, swinging swiftness, hadnot ceased to remark that timeswere finely changed since they used to see the pack-horses and hear thetinkling of their bells on this very highway.In those days there were pocket boroughs, a Birminghamunrepresented inParliament and compelled to make strong representations out of it,unrepealed corn-laws, three-and-sixpenny letters, a brawny andmany-breeding pauperism, and other departed evils; but there weresomepleasant things, too, which have also departed. _Non omnia grandior Ã¦tasquÃ¦ fugiamus habet_, says the wise goddess: you have not the best of itin all things, O youngsters! the elderly man has his enviablememories,and not the least of them is the memory of a long journey in mid-springor autumn on the outside of a stage coach. Posterity may be shot, like abullet through a tube, by atmospheric pressure, fromWinchester toNewcastle: that is a fine result to have among our hopes; but the slow,old fashioned way of getting from one end of our country to the other isthe better thing to have in the memory. The tube-journey cannever lendmuch to picture and narrative; it is as barren as an exclamatory O!Whereas, the happy outside passenger, seated on the box from the dawn tothe gloaming, gathered enough stories of English life, enough ofEnglishlabors in town and country, enough aspects of earth and sky, to makeepisodes for a modern Odyssey. Suppose only that his journey took himthrough that central plain, watered at one extremity by the Avon, attheother by the Trent. As the morning silvered the meadows with their longlines of bushy willows marking the water-courses, or burnished thegolden corn-ricks clustered near the long roofs of some midlandhomestead,he saw the full-uddered cows driven from their pasture to theearly milking. Perhaps it was the shepherd, head-servant of the farm,who drove them, his sheep-dog following with a heedless, unofficial air,as of a beadlein undress. The shepherd, with a slow and slouching walk,timed by the walk of grazing beasts, moved aside, as if unwillingly,throwing out a monosyllabic hint to his cattle; his glance, accustomedto rest on things verynear the earth, seemed to lift itself withdifficulty to the coachman. Mail or stage coach for him belonged to themysterious distant system of things called "Gover'ment," which, whateverit might be, was no business ofhis, any more than the most outlyingnebula or the coal-sacks of the southern hemisphere: his solar systemwas the parish; the master's temper and the casualties of lambing-timewere his region of storms. He cut hisbread and bacon with hispocket-knife, and felt no bitterness except in the matter of pauperlaborers and the bad-luck that sent contrarious seasons and thesheep-rot. He and his cows were soon left behind, and thehomestead,too, with its pond overhung by elder-trees, its untidy kitchen-gardenand cone-shaped yew-tree arbor. But everywhere the bushy hedgerowswasted the land with their straggling beauty, shrouded thegrassyborders of the pastures with catkined hazels, and tossed their longblackberry branches on the corn-fields. Perhaps they were white withMay, or starred with pale pink dog-roses; perhaps the urchins werealreadynutting among them, or gathering the plenteous crabs. It wasworth the journey only to see those hedgerows, the liberal homes ofunmarketable beauty--of the purple blossomed, ruby-berried nightshade,of the wildconvolvulus climbing and spreading in tendriled strengthtill it made a great curtain of pale-green hearts and white trumpets, ofthe many-tubed honey-suckle which, in its most delicate fragrance, hid acharm more subtleand penetrating than beauty. Even if it were winter,the hedgerows showed their coral, the scarlet haws, the deep-crimsonhips, with lingering brown leaves to make a resting-place for the jewelsof the hoar-frost. Suchhedgerows were often as tall as the laborers'cottages dotted along the lanes, or clustered into a small hamlet, theirlittle dingy windows telling, like thick-filmed eyes, of nothing but thedarkness within. The passenger onthe coach-box, bowled along abovesuch a hamlet, saw chiefly the roofs of it: probably it turned its backon the road, and seemed to lie away from everything but its own patch ofearth and sky, away from the parishchurch by long fields and greenlanes, away from all intercourse except that of tramps. If its facecould be seen, it was most likely dirty; but the dirt was Protestantdirt, and the big, bold, gin-breathing tramps wereProtestant tramps.There was no sign of superstition near, no crucifix or image to indicatea misguided reverence: the inhabitants were probably so free fromsuperstition that they were in much less awe of the parsonthan of theoverseer. Yet they were saved from the excess of Protestantism by notknowing how to read, and by the absence of handlooms and mines to be thepioneers of Dissent: they were kept safely in the _viamedia_ ofindifference, and could have registered themselves in the census by abig black mark as members of the Church of England.But there were trim cheerful villages too, with a neat or handsomeparsonage andgray church set in the midst; there was the pleasanttinkle of the blacksmith's anvil, the patient cart horses waiting at hisdoor; the basket-maker peeling his willow wands in the sunshine; thewheelwright putting his lasttouch to a blue cart with red wheels; hereand there a cottage with bright transparent windows showing pots full ofblooming balsams or geraniums, and little gardens in front all doubledaisies or dark wallflowers; at thewell, clean and comely womencarrying yoked buckets, and toward the free school small Britonsdawdling on, and handling their marbles in the pockets of unpatchedcorduroys adorned with brass buttons. The landaround was rich andmarly, great corn-stacks stood in the rick-yards--for the rick-burnershad not found their way hither; the homesteads were those of richfarmers who paid no rent, or had the rare advantage of alease, andcould afford to keep the corn till prices had risen. The coach would besure to overtake some of them on their way to their outlying fields orto the market-town, sitting heavily on their well-groomed horses,orweighing down one side of an olive-green gig. They probably thought ofthe coach with some contempt, as an accommodation for people who had nottheir own gigs, or who, wanting to travel to London and suchdistantplaces, belonged to the trading and less solid part of the nation. Thepassenger on the box could see that this was the district of protuberantoptimists, sure that old England was the best of all possiblecountries,and that if there were any facts which had not fallen under their ownobservation, they were facts not worth observing: the district of cleanlittle market-towns without manufactures, of fat livings, anaristocraticclergy, and low poor-rates. But as the day wore on thescene would change: the land would begin to be blackened with coal-pits,the rattle of handlooms to be heard in hamlets and villages. Here werepowerful menwalking queerly with knees bent outward from squatting inthe mine, going home to throw themselves down in their blackened flanneland sleep through the daylight, then rise and spend much of their highwages at theale-house with their fellows of the Benefit Club; here thepale eager faces of the handloom-weavers, men and women, haggard fromsitting up late at night to finish the week's work, hardly begun tillthe Wednesday.Everywhere the cottages and the small children weredirty, for the languid mothers gave their strength to the loom; piousDissenting women, perhaps, who took life patiently, and thought thatsalvation depended chieflyon predestination, and not at all oncleanliness. The gables of Dissenting chapels now made a visible sign ofreligion, and of a meeting-place to counterbalance the ale-house, evenin the hamlets; but if a couple of oldtermagants were seen tearing eachother's caps, it was a safe conclusion that, if they had not receivedthe sacraments of the Church, they had not at least given in toschismatic rites, and were free from the errors ofVoluntaryism. Thebreath of the manufacturing town, which made a cloudy day and a redgloom by night on the horizon, diffused itself over all the surroundingcountry, filling the air with eager unrest. Here was apopulation notconvinced that old England was as good as possible; here weremultitudinous men and women aware that their religion was not exactlythe religion of their rulers, who might therefore be better thantheywere, and who, if better, might alter many things which now made theworld perhaps more painful than it need be, and certainly more sinful.Yet there were the gray steeples too, and the churchyards, withtheirgrassy mounds and venerable headstones, sleeping in the sunlight; therewere broad fields and homesteads, and fine old woods covering a risingground, or stretching far by the roadside, allowing only peeps atthepark and mansion which they shut in from the working-day world. In thesemidland districts the traveller passed rapidly from one phase of Englishlife to another: after looking down on a village dingy withcoal-dust,noisy with the shaking of looms, he might skirt a parish all of fields,high hedges, and deep rutted lanes; after the coach had rattled over thepavement of a manufacturing town, the scenes of riots andtrades-unionmeetings, it would take him in another ten minutes into a rural region,where the neighborhood of the town was only felt in the advantages of anear market for corn, cheese, and hay, and where men with aconsiderablebanking account were accustomed to say that "they never meddled withpolitics themselves." The busy scenes of the shuttle and the wheel, ofthe roaring furnace, of the shaft and the pulley, seemed tomake butcrowded nests in the midst of the large-spaced, slow-moving life ofhomesteads and far-away cottages and oak-sheltered parks. Looking at thedwellings scattered amongst the woody flats and the ploweduplands,under the low gray sky which overhung them with an unchanging stillnessas if Time itself were pausing, it was easy for the traveller toconceive that town and country had no pulse in common, except wherethehandlooms made a far-reaching straggling fringe about the great centresof manufacture; that till the agitation about the Catholics in '29,rural Englishmen had hardly known more of Catholics than of thefossilmammals; and that their notion of Reform was a confused combination ofrick-burners, trades-unions, Nottingham riots, and in general whateverrequired the calling out of the yeomanry. It was still easier toseethat, for the most part, they resisted the rotation of crops and stoodby their fallows: and the coachman would perhaps tell how in one parishan innovating farmer, who talked of Sir Humphrey Davy, had beenfairlydriven out by popular dislike, as if he had been a confounded Radical;and how, the parson having one Sunday preached from the words, "Break upyour fallow-ground," the people thought he had made the text outof hisown head, otherwise it would never have come "so pat" on a matter ofbusiness; but when they found it in the Bible at home, some said it wasan argument for fallows (else why should the Bible mentionfallows?),but a few of the weaker sort were shaken, and thought it was an argumentthat fallows should be done away with, else the Bible would have said,"Let your fallows lie"; and the next morning the parson had astroke ofapoplexy, which, as coincident with a dispute about fallows, so set theparish against the innovating farmer and the rotation of crops, that hecould stand his ground no longer, and transferred his lease.Thecoachman was an excellent travelling companion and commentator onthe landscape: he could tell the names of sites and persons, and explainthe meaning of groups, as well as the shade of Virgil in a morememorablejourney; he had as many stories about parishes, and the menand women in them, as the Wanderer in the "Excursion," only his stylewas different. His view of life had originally been genial, such asbecame a man whowas well warmed within and without, and held a positionof easy, undisputed authority; but the recent initiation of railways hadembittered him: he now, as in a perpetual vision, saw the ruined countrystrewn withshattered limbs, and regarded Mr. Huskisson's death as aproof of God's anger against Stephenson. "Why, every inn on the roadwould be shut up!" and at that word the coachman looked before him withthe blank gazeof one who had driven his coach to the outermost edge ofthe universe, and saw his leaders plunging into the abyss. Still hewould soon relapse from the high prophetic strain to the familiar one ofnarrative. He knewwhose the land was wherever he drove; what noblemenhad half-ruined themselves by gambling; who made handsome returns ofrent; and who was at daggers-drawn with his eldest son. He perhapsremembered thefathers of actual baronets, and knew stories of theirextravagant or stingy housekeeping; whom they had married, whom they hadhorsewhipped, whether they were particular about preserving their game,and whetherthey had had much to do with canal companies. About anyactual landed proprietor he could also tell whether he was a Reformer oran Anti-Reformer. That was a distinction which had "turned up" in lattertimes, andalong with it the paradox, very puzzling to the coachman'smind, that there were men of old family and large estate who voted forthe Bill. He did not grapple with the paradox; he let it pass, with allthe discreetness of anexperienced theologian or learned scholiast,preferring to point his whip at some object which could raise noquestions.No such paradox troubled our coachman when, leaving the town of TrebyMagna behind him, hedrove between the hedges for a mile or so, crossedthe queer long bridge over the river Lapp, and then put his horses to aswift gallop up the hill by the low-nestled village of Little Treby,till they were on the fine levelroad, skirted on one side by grandlarches, oaks, and wych elms, which sometimes opened so far as to letthe traveller see that there was a park behind them.How many times in the year, as the coach rolled pasttheneglected-looking lodges which interrupted the screen of trees, andshowed the river winding through a finely-timbered park, had thecoachman answered the same questions, or told the same things withoutbeingquestioned! That?--oh, that was Transome Court, a place there hadbeen a fine sight of lawsuits about. Generations back, the heir of theTransome name had somehow bargained away the estate, and it fell totheDurfeys, very distant connections, who only called themselves Transomesbecause they had got the estate. But the Durfeys' claim had beendisputed over and over again; and the coachman, if he had beenasked,would have said, though he might have to fall down dead the next minute,that property didn't always get into the right hands. However, thelawyers had found their luck in it; and people who inherited estatesthatwere lawed about often lived in them as poorly as a mouse in ahollow cheese; and, by what he could make out, that had been the waywith these present Durfeys, or Transomes, as they called themselves. Asfor Mr.Transome, he was as poor, half-witted a fellow as you'd wish tosee; but _she_ was master, had come of a high family, and had aspirit--you might see it in her eye and the way she sat her horse. Fortyyears ago, whenshe came into this country, they said she was a pictur';but her family was poor, and so she took up with a hatchet-faced fellowlike this Transome. And the eldest son had been just such another as hisfather, onlyworse--a wild sort of half-natural, who got into badcompany. They said his mother hated him and wished him dead; for she'dgot another son, quite of a different cut, who had gone to foreign partswhen he was ayoungster, and she wanted her favorite to be heir. Butheir or no heir, Lawyer Jermyn had had _his_ picking out of the estate.Not a door in his big house but what was the finest polished oak, allgot off the Transomeestate. If anybody liked to believe he paid for it,they were welcome. However, Lawyer Jermyn had sat on that box-seat manyand many a time. He had made the wills of most people thereabout. Thecoachman would notsay that Lawyer Jermyn was not the man he wouldchoose to make his own will some day. It was not so well for a lawyer tobe over-honest, else he might not be up to other people's tricks. And asfor the Transomebusiness, there had been ins and outs in time gone by,so that you couldn't look into it straight backward. At this Mr. Sampson(everybody in North Loamshire knew Sampson's coach) would screw hisfeatures into agrimace expressive of entire neutrality, and appear toaim his whip at a particular spot on the horse's flank. If the passengerwas curious for further knowledge concerning the Transome affairs,Sampson would shake hishead and say there had been fine stories in histime; but he never condescended to state what the stories were. Someattributed this reticence to a wise incredulity, others to a want ofmemory, others to simpleignorance. But at least Sampson was right insaying that there had been fine stories--meaning, ironically, storiesnot altogether creditable to the parties concerned.And such stories often come to be fine in a sense that isnot ironical.For there is seldom any wrong-doing which does not carry along with itsome downfall of blindly-climbing hopes, some hard entail of suffering,some quickly-satiated desire that survives, with the life in deathofold paralytic vice, to see itself cursed by its woeful progeny--sometragic mark of kinship in the one brief life to the far-stretching lifethat went before, and to the life that is to come after, such as hasraised the pity andterror of men ever since they began to discernbetween will and destiny. But these things are often unknown to theworld; for there is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrationsthat make human agonies are oftena mere whisper in the roar of hurryingexistence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry ofmurder; robberies that leave man or woman forever beggared of peace andjoy, yet kept secret by thesufferer--committed to no sound except thatof low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that made on theface by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning tears.Many an inherited sorrow thathas marred a life has been breathed intono human ear.The poets have told us of a dolorous enchanted forest in the underworld. The thorn-bushes there, and the thick-barked stems, have humanhistories hidden inthem; the power of unuttered cries dwells in thepassionless-seeming branches, and the red warm blood is darkly feedingthe quivering nerves of a sleepless memory that watches through alldreams. These things are aparable.CHAPTER I.    He left me when the down upon his lip    Lay like the shadow of a hovering kiss.    "Beautiful mother, do not grieve," he said;    "I will be great, and build our fortunes high.    And you shall wear


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Lady With The Dog and Other Stories, by Anton ChekhovThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it awayorre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/licenseTitle: The Lady With The Dog and Other StoriesAuthor: Anton ChekhovRelease Date:September 9, 2004 [EBook #13415][Last updated: July 29, 2017]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LADY WITH THE DOG ***Produced by James RuskTHE TALES OFCHEKHOVVOLUME 3THE LADY WITH THE DOG AND OTHER STORIESBYANTON TCHEKHOVTranslated by CONSTANCE GARNETTCONTENTSTHE LADY WITH THE DOGA DOCTOR'S VISITAN UPHEAVALIONITCHTHE HEADOF THE FAMILYTHE BLACK MONKVOLODYAAN ANONYMOUS STORYTHE HUSBANDTHE LADY WITH THE DOGIIT was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady witha little dog. Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov,who had by then been a fortnightat Yalta, and so was fairly at home there, had begun to take an interestin new arrivals. Sitting in Verney's pavilion, he saw, walking on thesea-front, a fair-haired young lady of mediumheight, wearing a _bÃ©ret_;a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her.And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the squareseveral times a day. She was walking alone, always wearing thesame_bÃ©ret_, and always with the same white dog; no one knew who she was,and every one called her simply "the lady with the dog.""If she is here alone without a husband or friends, it wouldn't be amissto makeher acquaintance," Gurov reflected.He was under forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old, andtwo sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a student inhis second year, and by now hiswife seemed half as old again as he. Shewas a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid and dignified, and, asshe said of herself, intellectual. She read a great deal, used phoneticspelling, called her husband, notDmitri, but Dimitri, and he secretlyconsidered her unintelligent, narrow, inelegant, was afraid of her, anddid not like to be at home. He had begun being unfaithful to her longago--had been unfaithful to her often, and,probably on that account,almost always spoke ill of women, and when they were talked about in hispresence, used to call them "the lower race."It seemed to him that he had been so schooled by bitter experiencethathe might call them what he liked, and yet he could not get on for twodays together without "the lower race." In the society of men he wasbored and not himself, with them he was cold and uncommunicative;butwhen he was in the company of women he felt free, and knew what to sayto them and how to behave; and he was at ease with them even when he wassilent. In his appearance, in his character, in his whole nature,therewas something attractive and elusive which allured women and disposedthem in his favour; he knew that, and some force seemed to draw him,too, to them.Experience often repeated, truly bitter experience, hadtaught him longago that with decent people, especially Moscow people--always slow tomove and irresolute--every intimacy, which at first so agreeablydiversifies life and appears a light and charming adventure,inevitablygrows into a regular problem of extreme intricacy, and in the long runthe situation becomes unbearable. But at every fresh meeting with aninteresting woman this experience seemed to slip out of his memory,andhe was eager for life, and everything seemed simple and amusing.One evening he was dining in the gardens, and the lady in the _bÃ©ret_came up slowly to take the next table. Her expression, her gait, herdress,and the way she did her hair told him that she was a lady, thatshe was married, that she was in Yalta for the first time and alone, andthat she was dull there.... The stories told of the immorality in suchplaces as Yaltaare to a great extent untrue; he despised them, and knewthat such stories were for the most part made up by persons who wouldthemselves have been glad to sin if they had been able; but when thelady sat down atthe next table three paces from him, he rememberedthese tales of easy conquests, of trips to the mountains, and thetempting thought of a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with anunknown woman, whose name hedid not know, suddenly took possession ofhim.He beckoned coaxingly to the Pomeranian, and when the dog came up to himhe shook his finger at it. The Pomeranian growled: Gurov shook hisfinger at it again.The ladylooked at him and at once dropped her eyes."He doesn't bite," she said, and blushed."May I give him a bone?" he asked; and when she nodded he askedcourteously, "Have you been long in Yalta?""Five days.""And Ihave already dragged out a fortnight here."There was a brief silence."Time goes fast, and yet it is so dull here!" she said, not looking athim."That's only the fashion to say it is dull here. A provincial will livein Belyov orZhidra and not be dull, and when he comes here it's 'Oh,the dulness! Oh, the dust!' One would think he came from Grenada."She laughed. Then both continued eating in silence, like strangers, butafter dinner theywalked side by side; and there sprang up between themthe light jesting conversation of people who are free and satisfied, towhom it does not matter where they go or what they talk about. Theywalked and talked ofthe strange light on the sea: the water was of asoft warm lilac hue, and there was a golden streak from the moon uponit. They talked of how sultry it was after a hot day. Gurov told herthat he came from Moscow, thathe had taken his degree in Arts, but hada post in a bank; that he had trained as an opera-singer, but had givenit up, that he owned two houses in Moscow.... And from her he learntthat she had grown up in Petersburg,but had lived in S---- since hermarriage two years before, that she was staying another month in Yalta,and that her husband, who needed a holiday too, might perhaps come andfetch her. She was not sure whether herhusband had a post in a CrownDepartment or under the Provincial Council--and was amused by her ownignorance. And Gurov learnt, too, that she was called Anna Sergeyevna.Afterwards he thought about her in hisroom at the hotel--thought shewould certainly meet him next day; it would be sure to happen. As he gotinto bed he thought how lately she had been a girl at school, doinglessons like his own daughter; he recalled thediffidence, theangularity, that was still manifest in her laugh and her manner oftalking with a stranger. This must have been the first time in her lifeshe had been alone in surroundings in which she was followed, lookedat,and spoken to merely from a secret motive which she could hardly fail toguess. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her lovely grey eyes."There's something pathetic about her, anyway," he thought, andfellasleep.IIA week had passed since they had made acquaintance. It was a holiday. Itwas sultry indoors, while in the street the wind whirled the dust roundand round, and blew people's hats off. It was a thirsty day,and Gurovoften went into the pavilion, and pressed Anna Sergeyevna to have syrupand water or an ice. One did not know what to do with oneself.In the evening when the wind had dropped a little, they went out onthegroyne to see the steamer come in. There were a great many peoplewalking about the harbour; they had gathered to welcome some one,bringing bouquets. And two peculiarities of a well-dressed Yalta crowdwerevery conspicuous: the elderly ladies were dressed like young ones,and there were great numbers of generals.Owing to the roughness of the sea, the steamer arrived late, after thesun had set, and it was a long timeturning about before it reached thegroyne. Anna Sergeyevna looked through her lorgnette at the steamer andthe passengers as though looking for acquaintances, and when she turnedto Gurov her eyes were shining.She talked a great deal and askeddisconnected questions, forgetting next moment what she had asked; thenshe dropped her lorgnette in the crush.The festive crowd began to disperse; it was too dark to seepeople'sfaces. The wind had completely dropped, but Gurov and Anna Sergeyevnastill stood as though waiting to see some one else come from thesteamer. Anna Sergeyevna was silent now, and sniffed the flowerswithoutlooking at Gurov."The weather is better this evening," he said. "Where shall we go now?Shall we drive somewhere?"She made no answer.Then he looked at her intently, and all at once put his arm round herandkissed her on the lips, and breathed in the moisture and thefragrance of the flowers; and he immediately looked round him, anxiouslywondering whether any one had seen them."Let us go to your hotel," he said softly.And both walked quickly.The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the Japaneseshop. Gurov looked at her and thought: "What different people one meetsin the world!" From the past he preservedmemories of careless,good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him forthe happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and of women likehis wife who loved without any genuine feeling,with superfluousphrases, affectedly, hysterically, with an expression that suggestedthat it was not love nor passion, but something more significant; and oftwo or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whosefaces he hadcaught a glimpse of a rapacious expression--an obstinate desire tosnatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious,unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their firstyouth,and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, andthe lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity ofinexperienced youth, anawkward feeling; and there was a sense ofconsternation as though some one had suddenly knocked at the door. Theattitude of Anna Sergeyevna--"the lady with the dog"--to what hadhappened was somehow peculiar,very grave, as though it were herfall--so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her facedropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung downmournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like"the woman who was asinner" in an old-fashioned picture."It's wrong," she said. "You will be the first to despise me now."There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice andbegan eating it withouthaste. There followed at least half an hour ofsilence.Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good,simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning onthe table threw afaint light on her face, yet it was clear that she wasvery unhappy."How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you aresaying.""God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears."It'sawful.""You seem to feel you need to be forgiven.""Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attemptto justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. Andnot only just now;I have been deceiving myself for a long time. Myhusband may be a good, honest man, but he is a flunkey! I don't knowwhat he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey! I wastwenty when I was marriedto him. I have been tormented by curiosity; Iwanted something better. 'There must be a different sort of life,' Isaid to myself. I wanted to live! To live, to live!... I was fired bycuriosity ... you don't understand it, but, Iswear to God, I could notcontrol myself; something happened to me: I could not be restrained. Itold my husband I was ill, and came here.... And here I have beenwalking about as though I were dazed, like a madcreature; ... and now Ihave become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise."Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by thenaÃ¯ve tone, by this remorse, so unexpected andinopportune; but for thetears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing apart."I don't understand," he said softly. "What is it you want?"She hid her face on his breast and pressed close tohim."Believe me, believe me, I beseech you ..." she said. "I love a pure,honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing.Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say ofmyselfnow that the Evil One has beguiled me.""Hush, hush!..." he muttered.He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly andaffectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaietyreturned; theyboth began laughing.Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. Thetown with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea stillbroke noisily on the shore; a single barge was rocking onthe waves, anda lantern was blinking sleepily on it.They found a cab and drove to Oreanda."I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on theboard--Von Diderits," said Gurov. "Is your husband aGerman?""No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an OrthodoxRussian himself."At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down atthe sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visiblethrough the morningmist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves didnot stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollowsound of the sea rising up from below, spoke ofthe peace, of theeternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was noYalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound asindifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And inthisconstancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of eachof us, there lies hid, perhaps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, ofthe unceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progresstowardsperfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed solovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surroundings--the sea,mountains, clouds, the open sky--Gurov thought how in realityeverythingis beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what wethink or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higheraims of our existence.A man walked up to them--probably akeeper--looked at them and walkedaway. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw asteamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn."There is dew on the grass," said AnnaSergeyevna, after a silence."Yes. It's time to go home."They went back to the town.Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched anddined together, went for walks, admired the sea. Shecomplained that sheslept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the samequestions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that he did notrespect her sufficiently. And often in the square or gardens,when therewas no one near them, he suddenly drew her to him and kissed herpassionately. Complete idleness, these kisses in broad daylight while helooked round in dread of some one's seeing them, the heat, thesmell ofthe sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of idle,well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told AnnaSergeyevna how beautiful she was, how fascinating. He wasimpatientlypassionate, he would not move a step away from her, while she was oftenpensive and continually urged him to confess that he did not respecther, did not love her in the least, and thought of her as nothingbut acommon woman. Rather late almost every evening they drove somewhere outof town, to Oreanda or to the waterfall; and the expedition was always asuccess, the scenery invariably impressed them as grand andbeautiful.They were expecting her husband to come, but a letter came from him,saying that there was something wrong with his eyes, and he entreatedhis wife to come home as quickly as possible. Anna Sergeyevnamade hasteto go."It's a good thing I am going away," she said to Gurov. "It's the fingerof destiny!"She went by coach and he went with her. They were driving the whole day.When she had got into a compartment ofthe express, and when the secondbell had rung, she said:"Let me look at you once more ... look at you once again. That's right."She did not shed tears, but was so sad that she seemed ill, and her facewas quivering."Ishall remember you ... think of you," she said. "God be with you; behappy. Don't remember evil against me. We are parting forever--it mustbe so, for we ought never to have met. Well, God be with you."The trainmoved off rapidly, its lights soon vanished from sight, and aminute later there was no sound of it, as though everything hadconspired together to end as quickly as possible that sweet delirium,that madness. Left aloneon the platform, and gazing into the darkdistance, Gurov listened to the chirrup of the grasshoppers and the humof the telegraph wires, feeling as though he had only just waked up. Andhe thought, musing, that therehad been another episode or adventure inhis life, and it, too, was at an end, and nothing was left of it but amemory.... He was moved, sad, and conscious of a slight remorse. Thisyoung woman whom he would nevermeet again had not been happy with him;he was genuinely warm and affectionate with her, but yet in his manner,his tone, and his caresses there had been a shade of light irony, thecoarse condescension of a happyman who was, besides, almost twice herage. All the time she had called him kind, exceptional, lofty; obviouslyhe had seemed to her different from what he really was, so he hadunintentionally deceived her....Here atthe station was already a scent of autumn; it was a coldevening."It's time for me to go north," thought Gurov as he left the platform."High time!"IIIAt home in Moscow everything was in its winter routine; the stoveswereheated, and in the morning it was still dark when the children werehaving breakfast and getting ready for school, and the nurse would lightthe lamp for a short time. The frosts had begun already. When thefirstsnow has fallen, on the first day of sledge-driving it is pleasant tosee the white earth, the white roofs, to draw soft, delicious breath,and the season brings back the days of one's youth. The old limes andbirches,white with hoar-frost, have a good-natured expression; they arenearer to one's heart than cypresses and palms, and near them onedoesn't want to be thinking of the sea and the mountains.Gurov was Moscow born; hearrived in Moscow on a fine frosty day, andwhen he put on his fur coat and warm gloves, and walked along Petrovka,and when on Saturday evening he heard the ringing of the bells, hisrecent trip and the places he hadseen lost all charm for him. Little bylittle he became absorbed in Moscow life, greedily read three newspapersa day, and declared he did not read the Moscow papers on principle! Healready felt a longing to go torestaurants, clubs, dinner-parties,anniversary celebrations, and he felt flattered at entertainingdistinguished lawyers and artists, and at playing cards with a professorat the doctors' club. He could already eat a wholeplateful of salt fishand cabbage.In another month, he fancied, the image of Anna Sergeyevna would beshrouded in a mist in his memory, and only from time to time would visithim in his dreams with a touching smile asothers did. But more than amonth passed, real winter had come, and everything was still clear inhis memory as though he had parted with Anna Sergeyevna only the daybefore. And his memories glowed more andmore vividly. When in theevening stillness he heard from his study the voices of his children,preparing their lessons, or when he listened to a song or the organ atthe restaurant, or the storm howled in the chimney,suddenly everythingwould rise up in his memory: what had happened on the groyne, and theearly morning with the mist on the mountains, and the steamer comingfrom Theodosia, and the kisses. He would pace a longtime about hisroom, remembering it all and smiling; then his memories passed intodreams, and in his fancy the past was mingled with what was to come.Anna Sergeyevna did not visit him in dreams, but followed himabouteverywhere like a shadow and haunted him. When he shut his eyes he sawher as though she were living before him, and she seemed to himlovelier, younger, tenderer than she was; and he imagined himselffinerthan he had been in Yalta. In the evenings she peeped out at him fromthe bookcase, from the fireplace, from the corner--he heard herbreathing, the caressing rustle of her dress. In the street he watchedthewomen, looking for some one like her.He was tormented by an intense desire to confide his memories to someone. But in his home it was impossible to talk of his love, and he hadno one outside; he could not talk to his


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                                      THE GRUDGE                                                Written by                                     StephenSusco                                                                          Based on the films                         Ju-on, Ju-on 2 and Ju-on: TheGrudge                                          By                                   Takashi Shimizu                                                         Production Draft - BLUE                                               Revised, January 26,2004                              1   INT. PETER & MARIA'S BEDROOM - DAY                               1                        FADE IN on MARIA (late 20s), asleep in bed.She's              breathtakingly beautiful. Morning light fills the room.      The              sound of wind, and rippling cloth.                        Maria stirs, and opens her eyes.     She stretchescontentedly.                        Then she frowns.    Rolls over.    She's alone in the bed?                        No, she's not: PETER (20s) sits on the edge, his back to her.              Two fresh, steaming mugsof coffee sit on a tray near him.                                               MARIA                        Hey.     Are you okay?                        Peter doesn't turn. He slowly stands and walksforward              towards an OPEN WINDOW.                        There's something strange about the way he moves -- stiffly,              almost jerkily, straining his joints andmuscles.                        Maria gets out of bed, concerned.                                              MARIA                        Peter?    What's the matter?                        He pauses at thewindow.    Turns his head to look back at her.                        His eyes are vacant.    His face is a blank.                        Then Peter slowly leans forward.     And falls from thewindow.                        Maria stands in shock as the sound of SCREECHING TIRES from              outside reaches her ears. Then SCREAMS OF TERROR from below.                        Aghast, shefinally manages to numbly walk forward, towards              the window. We MOVE PAST her and TILT DOWN TO REVEAL --                        -- PETER'S BODY lies in the middle of the street.     Hishead              has burst open, his body broken and twisted.                        ON THE PAVEMENT: a line of blood appears, moving down the              center of the screen. As if hitting grooves we cannot see--                        -- the blood slowly forms the shape of two KANJI CHARACTERS.              A translation appears over them: "The Grudge."                              2   EXT. STREETCORNER - DAY                                         2                        A blur of movement as hundreds of people stream up from a              subway tunnel. Most are Japanese. We're not inKansas.                                                   Revisions (Blue) -- 1/26/04     2.                                             Standing in the middle of the rush-hour pedestrian trafficis                         KAREN (20s, American). She faces upstream, looking for               someone. The flow threatens to carry her away in a               heartbeat. She looks fragile, intimidated by themadness.                                             DOUG (O.S.)                         Karen!                         She turns to see her boyfriend DOUG (20s, American)               approaching. With areassuring smile he takes her hand --                         -- and together, they force their way through the throng,               trying to escape the flow. They're jostled and crushed by               the crowd, andDoug protectively pulls Karen closer.                                             KAREN                         I'll never get used tothis.                                             DOUG                         Maybe we should find a different                         train station.                         He abruptly stops, right in the middle of traffic,still               holding Karen's hand. She turns, wondering what's going on.               She sees the smile on his lips a moment before --                         -- he sweeps Karen into his arms and kisses her. As ifthe               crowd of businessmen surging around them isn't there at all.                         It's tender and loving, and she responds... at first.   But               then she pulls away,shy.                                             KAREN                         A public display of affection is                         considered rude in Japan.                         There's an opening ahead into a SIDESTREET.   Doug and Karen               deftly slip out of the traffic--                              2a                                                                 2a               OMITTED                    2b   EXT. TOKYO STREET -DAY                                       2b                         -- and walk hand-in-hand down the much quieter street, away               from the crowded thoroughfare.                         Doug smiles as they passby two JAPANESE HIGH SCHOOL COUPLES,               making out on the street corner. He turns to give Karen a               sarcastic look --                                            Revisions (Blue) --1/26/04      2A.                                        -- but she didn't notice the school kids. She's looking in          the other direction, at a trickle of SMOKE wafting up over a          nearbyfence.                                        KAREN                    What's that?                    Doug follows as she walks toward an OLD TEMPLE, nestled          beneath a skyscraper. A collision of theancient and modern.          The fence surrounds a GRAVEYARD adjacent to the temple.                                        DOUG                    We walk past this temple every day,                    Karen--                                        KAREN                    Yeah, but I've never seen this                    before.                    A JAPANESE MAN stands before an ornate headstone, lightinga          bundle of incense and bowing before the grave.                                        KAREN                    It's a Buddhist ritual. The                    incense smoke carries the prayers                    to thespirits of his ancestors, to                    help them remain at peace.                    CLINK. She turns as Doug, grinning, lights a cigarette with          his Zippo, flicking it shut and pocketingit.                                        DOUG                    It's amazing. You're like this                    infinite storehouse of wisdom. Or                    trivia. I'm not surewhich.                                        KAREN                    It's not trivia. It's what they                    believe. And it's far better, by                    the way, than your littlepollution                    ritual.                    Doug's grin softens to a smile. He doesn't respond... but          the way he's looking at Karen makes hercurious:                                        KAREN                    What?                    He turns away for a moment, almost shyly, dropping his          cigarette and crushing it.Finally:                                             Revisions (Blue) -- 1/26/04      2B.                                                             DOUG                    Nothing. I just -- I likethat                    about you. You seem to be able to                    remember everything that's really                    important.                    She smiles.   A tender moment.   Then... he checks hiswatch.                                        DOUG                    Except the time.                    Karen checks her own watch, realizing--                                        KAREN                    Oh, crap --                    She grabs his hand and starts to walkquickly.                                        KAREN                    C'mon, you're gonna be late.                                                  Revisions (Blue) --1/26/04      3-4.                                                  2c    EXT. CAMPUS - DAY                                           2c                          An international college in Tokyo. Theautumn chill doesn't                deter the students from enjoying the beautiful day.                          Karen and Doug, still holding hands, enter the campus.                              2cc   EXT.NURSING CARE CENTER - DAY                             2cc                          Karen and Doug approach the doors of a NURSING CARE CENTER.                She pulls him to the side just as he's stepping undera                WORKMAN'S LADDER by the doors.                                              KAREN                          Uh-uh. Seven years of bad luck.                              (before Doug canrespond:)                          And I might have a vested interest                          in those years.                                              DOUG                          Is thatright?                                                KAREN                          Maybe.                          Doug smiles, kissing herromantically.   Then:                                              DOUG                          Will I see you tonight?                                              KAREN                          I'll call you when I gethome.                          With a flourish, Doug SWINGS HIMSELF back under the ladder.                                                DOUG                          Fourteen.    I hate oddnumbers.                    2d                                                                2d                INT. NURSING CARE CENTER - DAY                Through the front doors, we see Doug kiss Karenagain.   They                finally separate, and Doug walks off.                                            Revisions (Blue) -- 1/26/04     4A.                                        Then Karen walksthrough the doors into a bright, atrium-like          lobby area. She waves "hello" to the RECEPTIONIST.                                               Revisions (Blue) --1/26/04     5.                                        Leaning against a desk behind Reception is Karen's boss ALEX          (40s, American). He's got a phone to his ear -- it's          ringing. An