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<title>FROM DUSK TILLDAWN</title>
              FROM DUSK TILL DAWN                 Screenplay by               Quentin Tarantino                   Story by                Robert Kurtzman                  Directedby               Robert RodriguezThis script was transcribed, proof read and formatted by ueli rieggemail: webmaster@studiour.tsx.org; url: http://studiour.tsx.orgCast List:Quentin Tarantino                 RichardGeckoGeorge Clooney                    Seth GeckoBrenda Hillhouse                  Hostage GloriaHarvey Keitel                     JacobJuliette Lewis                    KateErnest Liu                        ScottCheechMarin                      Border Guard, Chet Pussy, CarlosSelma Hayek                       Santanico PandemoniumDanny Trejo                       Razor CharlieErnest Garcia                     Big EmilioTomSavini                        Sex MachineFred Williamson                   Frost"I earnestly wish an end would come to this bloody race I am forced to run."                                          Countess                           in: "LaComtesse Noire"                                    by Jess Franco FADE IN: EXT. LIQUOR STORE - DAY A convenience store in a Texas Suburb. No other businesses surround it. CLOSE-UP: A light switch isflipped on. The sign on top of the store lights up. It reads: BENNY'S WORLD OF LIQUOR. TITLE CARD: BIG SPRING, TEXAS    109 MILES WEST OF ABILENE 345 MILES EASTOF THE MEXICAN BORDER A Texas Ranger patrol car pulls into the parking lot and a real live Texas Ranger, EARL MCGRAW, steps out. McGraw is in full ranger uniform - button shirt, cowboy hat, boots, mirroredshades, tin star and a colt revolver on his hip. It's about an hour and a half before sundown and McGraw is off duty for the day. The only other car in the parking lot is a 1975 Plymouth INT. BENNY'S WORLD OFLIQUOR - DAY A young Hawaiian Shirt wearing man named PETE sits on a stool behind the counter. A few CLOSE-UP:STOMERS fiddle about. A MAN wearing a black suit, black tie, and wire rim glasses holds handswith a PRETTY BLONDE GIRL in cutoffs and bare feet. They look through magazines. Another black suit wearing MAN holds hands with a RED-HEADED GIRL in a prep school uniform. They look through the beer cooler inthe back of the store. Both girls are around seventeen. MCGRAW enters the store. MCGRAW Hot goddamn day! PETE Haven't felt it a bit. Been inside with the air conditioner blastin' all day long.MCGRAW Not even for lunch? PETE I'm by myself today, ate my lunch outta the microwave. McGraw walks over to the beer cooler, as if done ritually every night (it is), takes out a beer, pops it open andjoins Pete by the front counter. MCGRAW Jesus Christ man, that microwave food will kill ya as quick as a bullet. Those burritos are only fit for a hippie high on weed. Pull me down a bottle of Jack Daniels. I'mgettin' tanked tonight. PETE Whatsamatter? MCGRAW (sighs) Awww, it's just been a shitass day. Every inch of it hot and miserable. First off, Nadine at the Blue Chip got some sorta sick, so thatMongoloid boy of hers was workin' the grill. That fuckin' idiot don't know rat shit from Rice Krispies. I ate breakfast at nine, was pukin' up pigs in a blanket like a sick dog by ten thirty. PETE Isn't there a law orsomething against retards serving food to the public? MCGRAW Well, if there ain't there sure oughta be. Who knows what goes on inside Mongoloid's mind? PETE You could sue the shit out of her, yaknow. That kid belongs under a circus tent, not flippin' burgers. You could own that fuckin' place. MCGRAW What the hell would I do with that grease pit? Besides, Nadine's got enough of a cross to bear justtaking care of that potato head. Then all this Abilene shit happened. You heard about that bank robbery in Abilene, didn't ya? PETE That's all that's been on the box all day. They killed some people didn'tthey? MCGRAW Four Rangers, three cops, and two civilians. And they took a lady bank teller as a hostage. Pete doesn't say anything. MCGRAW They'll probably make a run for the border, whichwould bring 'em this way. And if we get our hands on those shit asses, we're talking payback time. We'll get 'em all right. I gotta piss. I'm gonna use your commode. PETE Knock yourself out. McGraw drops hislast drip of beer, crushes the can and exits in the bathroom. The black suited man by the beer cooler turns around and, with the prep school girl in tow, walks rapidly toward Pete. We see that the girl is crying.BLACK SUITED MAN #1 (to Pete) Do you think I'm fuckin' playing with you, asshole? (points to the tearful prep school girl) Do you want this little girl to die? (pointing to the blonde with the other guy) Or that littlegirl? Or your bosombuddy with the badge? Or yourself? I don't wanna do it, but I'll turn this fuckin' store into the Wild Bunch if I even think you're fuckin' with me. The two men in black suits are the notorious Abilenebank robbers, SETH and RICHARD GECKO, "The Gecko Brothers." And the other customers are all being held hostage. Seth is the one with the prep girl. Richard is the one with the blonde. Everybody speaks low andfast. PETE What do you want from me? I did what you said. SETH Letting him use your toilet? No store does that. PETE He comes in here every day and we bullshit. He's used my toilet athousand times. If I told him no, he'd know something was up. SETH I want that son-of-a-bitch out outta here, in his car, and down the road or you can change the name of this place to "Benny's World ofBlood." Richard, holding tightly the hand of the terrified girl, leans next to Seth's ear and whispers something. Seth looks at Pete. SETH Were you giving that pig signals? PETE What? Are you kidding?I didn't do anything! Richard whispers something else in Seth's ear. SETH He says you were scratching. PETE I wasn't scratching! SETH You callin' him a liar? Pete controls himself.PETE I'm not calling him a liar, okay? I'm simply saying that if I was scratching, and if I did scratch, it's not because I was signaling the cop, it's because I'm fuckin' scared shitless. Richard speaks for the first timein a low calm voice to Seth. RICHARD The Ranger's taking a piss. Why don't I just go in there, blow his head off and get outta here. PETE Don't do that! Look, you asked me to act natural, and I'macting as natural -- in fact, under the circumstances, I think I ought get a fuckin' Academy Award for how natural I'm acting. You asked me to get rid of him, I'm doing my best. SETH Yeah, well, your bestbetter get a helluva lot fuckin' better, or you're gonna feel a helluva fuckin' lot worse. The toilet FLUSHES. SETH Everybody be cool. Everybody goes back to what they were doing. McGraw steps back out ofthe back. He appears to be unaware of the situation. MCGRAW Yeah, and I'm gonna be right back at it tomorrow. So tonight I'm gonna sit in front of the box and just drink booze. How much is the bottle?PETE Six-fifty. Out of nowhere Richard WHIPS out his forty-five automatic and SHOOTS McGraw in the head. McGraw goes down screaming. Richard stands over him and SHOOTS him twice more. Seth chargesforward. SETH (to Richard) What the fuck was that about? RICHARD (in a low monotone) He signaled the Ranger. PETE (hysterical) I didn't. (to Seth) You gotta believe me, I didn't.RICHARD (to Seth) When they were talkin', he mouthed the words "Help Us." PETE You fuckin' liar, I didn't say shit! Richard SHOOTS Pete and Pete falls down behind the counter. Seth grabs Richard andthrows him up against the wall. SETH What the fuck is wrong with you -- RICHARD Seth, he did it. You were by the beer cooler with your back turned. I was by the magazines, I could see his face.And I saw him mouth: Richard mouths the words, "Help Us." While Pete lies on the floor behind the counter bleeding from his bullet wound, he opens his floor safe and pulls out a gun from it. Seth releases hisbrother. SETH Start the car. RICHARD You believe me don't cha? SETH Shut up and start the car. Richard walks away from Seth and crosses the counter... ...when Pete SPRINGS up, gun inhand, and SHOOTS Richard in the hand. Richard FALLS to his knees, howling. Both Pete and Seth SPRAY the store with gunfire. Seth DIVES down an aisle. He reloads. Pete DUCKS behind the counter. He reloads.Richard has crawled to safety behind an aisle. The two girls have run out screaming. SETH (yelling) Richie? You okay? RICHARD (yelling) I'm not dead, but I'm definitely shot! I told you that bastardsaid, "Help us!" PETE (yelling) I never said help us! SETH (yelling) Well that don't matter now, 'cause you got about two fuckin' seconds to live! Richie! RICHARD (yelling) Yeah?SETH (yelling) When I count three, shoot out the bottles behind him! RICHARD Gotcha! SETH One... Two... Three. The two brothers start FIRING toward the counter. They HIT the bottles ofalcohol on the shelf behind Pete. Pete is crouched on the ground as glass, debris and alcohol RAIN down on him. Seth grabs a roll of paper towels from off a shelf. Richard keeps FIRING. Seth douses the paper towelswith lighter fluid, sets it on fire with his Zippo, then tosses it. The flaming roll of paper towels FLIES through the air. The fireball lands behind the counter. The entire counter area immediately BURSTS INTO FLAMES.Pete screams from behind the counter. Seth smiles to himself and stands. Richard shakes his head in amusement and stands. Pete runs out from behind the counter, ENGULFED IN FLAMES still holding his weapon andFIRING. Seth and Richard hit the ground FIRING their .45's. Pete, the human torch, FALLS like a tree into the Hostess Pastry display. Seth and Richard rise from the rubble. EXT. BENNY'S WORLD OF LIQUOR -DAY They exit the store squabbling. The store is bursting into flames. SETH What did I tell you? What did I tell you? Buy the road map and leave. RICHARD What am I supposed to do, Seth? Herecognized us. SETH He didn't recognize shit. Both Seth and Richard stand on opposite sides of the car. RICHARD Seth, I'm telling you, the way he looked at us -- you especially -- I knew he knew.They both climb in the car, Seth behind the wheel. Seth starts it op. The souped up engine ROARS to life. We can hear Seth mumbling under the motor. SETH Low profile. Do you know what the words "lowprofile" mean? CLOSE-UP: SETH'S FOOT PUNCHES GAS. The Plymouth tears out of the parking lot backwards, hits the street, and speeds off down the road. We CRANE UP HIGH to see the car leaving a trail ofdust behind it, as the store burns out of control. OPENING CREDIT SEQUENCE. Raunchy, honky-tonk MUSIC fills the theater.   CUT TO: EXT. TEXAS PANHANDLE - DAY The Plymouth tears


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Laodicean, by Thomas HardyThis 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 it under theterms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: A LaodiceanAuthor: Thomas HardyPosting Date: February 9, 2009 [EBook #3258]Release Date: June,2002Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LAODICEAN ***Produced by Les BowlerA LAODICEAN: A STORY OF TO-DAYBy ThomasHardyCONTENTS.   PREFACE                                          CHAPTERS   BOOK THE FIRST.   GEORGE SOMERSET.               I - XV.   BOOK THE SECOND.  DARE AND HAVILL.               I - VII.   BOOK THE THIRD.   DESTANCY.                     I - XI.   BOOK THE FOURTH.  SOMERSET, DARE, AND DE STANCY. I - V.   BOOK THE FIFTH.   DE STANCY AND PAULA.           I - XIV.   BOOK THE SIXTH.   PAULA.                         I -V.PREFACE.The changing of the old order in country manors and mansions may beslow or sudden, may have many issues romantic or otherwise, its romanticissues being not necessarily restricted to a change back tothe originalorder; though this admissible instance appears to have been the onlyromance formerly recognized by novelists as possible in the case.Whether the following production be a picture of other possibilitiesornot, its incidents may be taken to be fairly well supported by evidenceevery day forthcoming in most counties.The writing of the tale was rendered memorable to two persons, at least,by a tedious illness of fivemonths that laid hold of the author soonafter the story was begun in a well-known magazine; during whichperiod the narrative had to be strenuously continued by dictation to apredetermined cheerful ending.As some ofthese novels of Wessex life address themselves moreespecially to readers into whose souls the iron has entered, and whoseyears have less pleasure in them now than heretofore, so "A Laodicean"may perhaps help towhile away an idle afternoon of the comfortable oneswhose lines have fallen to them in pleasant places; above all, of thatlarge and happy section of the reading public which has not yet reachedripeness of years; thoseto whom marriage is the pilgrim's Eternal City,and not a milestone on the way. T.H.January 1896.BOOK THE FIRST. GEORGE SOMERSET.I.The sun blazed down and down, till it was within half-an-hour of itssetting; butthe sketcher still lingered at his occupation of measuringand copying the chevroned doorway--a bold and quaint example of atransitional style of architecture, which formed the tower entrance toan English villagechurch. The graveyard being quite open on its westernside, the tweed-clad figure of the young draughtsman, and the tall massof antique masonry which rose above him to a battlemented parapet,were fired to a greatbrightness by the solar rays, that crossed theneighbouring mead like a warp of gold threads, in whose mazes groups ofequally lustrous gnats danced and wailed incessantly.He was so absorbed in his pursuit that he didnot mark the brilliantchromatic effect of which he composed the central feature, till it wasbrought home to his intelligence by the warmth of the moulded stoneworkunder his touch when measuring; which led him atlength to turn his headand gaze on its cause.There are few in whom the sight of a sunset does not beget as muchmeditative melancholy as contemplative pleasure, the human decline anddeath that it illustrates beingtoo obvious to escape the notice ofthe simplest observer. The sketcher, as if he had been brought to thisreflection many hundreds of times before by the same spectacle, showedthat he did not wish to pursue it justnow, by turning away his faceafter a few moments, to resume his architectural studies.He took his measurements carefully, and as if he reverenced the oldworkers whose trick he was endeavouring to acquire sixhundred yearsafter the original performance had ceased and the performers passed intothe unseen. By means of a strip of lead called a leaden tape, whichhe pressed around and into the fillets and hollows with hisfinger andthumb, he transferred the exact contour of each moulding to his drawing,that lay on a sketching-stool a few feet distant; where were also asketching-block, a small T-square, a bow-pencil, and othermathematicalinstruments. When he had marked down the line thus fixed, he returned tothe doorway to copy another as before.It being the month of August, when the pale face of the townsman and thestranger is tobe seen among the brown skins of remotest uplanders,not only in England, but throughout the temperate zone, few of thehomeward-bound labourers paused to notice him further than by amomentary turn of the head.They had beheld such gentlemen before, notexactly measuring the church so accurately as this one seemed to bedoing, but painting it from a distance, or at least walking round themouldy pile. At the same time thepresent visitor, even exteriorly, wasnot altogether commonplace. His features were good, his eyes of the darkdeep sort called eloquent by the sex that ought to know, and with thatray of light in them which announces aheart susceptible to beauty ofall kinds,--in woman, in art, and in inanimate nature. Though hewould have been broadly characterized as a young man, his face borecontradictory testimonies to his precise age. This wasconceivablyowing to a too dominant speculative activity in him, which, while ithad preserved the emotional side of his constitution, and with it thesignificant flexuousness of mouth and chin, had played upon hisforeheadand temples till, at weary moments, they exhibited some traces of beingover-exercised. A youthfulness about the mobile features, a matureforehead--though not exactly what the world has been familiar withinpast ages--is now growing common; and with the advance of juvenileintrospection it probably must grow commoner still. Briefly, he had moreof the beauty--if beauty it ought to be called--of the future human typethanof the past; but not so much as to make him other than a nice youngman.His build was somewhat slender and tall; his complexion, though a littlebrowned by recent exposure, was that of a man who spent much of histimeindoors. Of beard he had but small show, though he was as innocent asa Nazarite of the use of the razor; but he possessed a moustacheall-sufficient to hide the subtleties of his mouth, which could thusbetremulous at tender moments without provoking inconvenient criticism.Owing to his situation on high ground, open to the west, he remainedenveloped in the lingering aureate haze till a time when the easternpart ofthe churchyard was in obscurity, and damp with rising dew.When it was too dark to sketch further he packed up his drawing, and,beckoning to a lad who had been idling by the gate, directed him tocarry the stool andimplements to a roadside inn which he named, lying amile or two ahead. The draughtsman leisurely followed the lad out of thechurchyard, and along a lane in the direction signified.The spectacle of a summer travellerfrom London sketching mediaevaldetails in these neo-Pagan days, when a lull has come over the study ofEnglish Gothic architecture, through a re-awakening to the art-forms oftimes that more nearly neighbour ourown, is accounted for by the factthat George Somerset, son of the Academician of that name, was a manof independent tastes and excursive instincts, who unconsciously, andperhaps unhappily, took greater pleasure infloating in lonely currentsof thought than with the general tide of opinion. When quite a lad, inthe days of the French Gothic mania which immediately succeeded to thegreat English-pointed revival under Britton, Pugin,Rickman, Scott, andother mediaevalists, he had crept away from the fashion to admire whatwas good in Palladian and Renaissance. As soon as Jacobean, QueenAnne, and kindred accretions of decayed styles began tobe popular, hepurchased such old-school works as Revett and Stuart, Chambers, and therest, and worked diligently at the Five Orders; till quite bewilderedon the question of style, he concluded that all styles wereextinct, andwith them all architecture as a living art. Somerset was not old enoughat that time to know that, in practice, art had at all times been asfull of shifts and compromises as every other mundane thing; thatidealperfection was never achieved by Greek, Goth, or Hebrew Jew, andnever would be; and thus he was thrown into a mood of disgust withhis profession, from which mood he was only delivered byrecklesslyabandoning these studies and indulging in an old enthusiasm for poeticalliterature. For two whole years he did nothing but write verse in everyconceivable metre, and on every conceivable subject, fromWordsworthiansonnets on the singing of his tea-kettle to epic fragments on the Fallof Empires. His discovery at the age of five-and-twenty that theseinspired works were not jumped at by the publishers with alltheeagerness they deserved, coincided in point of time with a severe hintfrom his father that unless he went on with his legitimate profession hemight have to look elsewhere than at home for an allowance. Mr.Somersetjunior then awoke to realities, became intently practical, rushed backto his dusty drawing-boards, and worked up the styles anew, with a viewof regularly starting in practice on the first day of thefollowingJanuary.It is an old story, and perhaps only deserves the light tone in whichthe soaring of a young man into the empyrean, and his descent again, isalways narrated. But as has often been said, the light and thetruth maybe on the side of the dreamer: a far wider view than the wise oneshave may be his at that recalcitrant time, and his reduction to commonmeasure be nothing less than a tragic event. The operationcalledlunging, in which a haltered colt is made to trot round and rounda horsebreaker who holds the rope, till the beholder grows dizzy inlooking at them, is a very unhappy one for the animal concerned. Duringitsprogress the colt springs upward, across the circle, stops, fliesover the turf with the velocity of a bird, and indulges in all sorts ofgraceful antics; but he always ends in one way--thanks to the knottedwhipcord--in a leveltrot round the lunger with the regularity of ahorizontal wheel, and in the loss for ever to his character of thebold contours which the fine hand of Nature gave it. Yet the process isconsidered to be the making ofhim.Whether Somerset became permanently made under the action of theinevitable lunge, or whether he lapsed into mere dabbling with theartistic side of his profession only, it would be premature to say; butat anyrate it was his contrite return to architecture as a calling thatsent him on the sketching excursion under notice. Feeling that somethingstill was wanting to round off his knowledge before he could take hisprofessional linewith confidence, he was led to remember that his ownnative Gothic was the one form of design that he had totally neglectedfrom the beginning, through its having greeted him with wearisomeiteration at the opening ofhis career. Now it had again returned tosilence; indeed--such is the surprising instability of art 'principles'as they are facetiously called--it was just as likely as not to sinkinto the neglect and oblivion which had been itslot in Georgian times.This accident of being out of vogue lent English Gothic an additionalcharm to one of his proclivities; and away he went to make it thebusiness of a summer circuit in the west.The quiet time ofevening, the secluded neighbourhood, the unusuallygorgeous liveries of the clouds packed in a pile over that quarter ofthe heavens in which the sun had disappeared, were such as to makea traveller loiter on his walk.Coming to a stile, Somerset mountedhimself on the top bar, to imbibe the spirit of the scene and hour. Theevening was so still that every trifling sound could be heard for miles.There was the rattle of a returningwaggon, mixed with the smacks of thewaggoner's whip: the team must have been at least three miles off. Fromfar over the hill came the faint periodic yell of kennelled hounds;while from the nearest village resoundedthe voices of boys at play inthe twilight. Then a powerful clock struck the hour; it was not fromthe direction of the church, but rather from the wood behind him; and hethought it must be the clock of some mansion thatway.But the mind of man cannot always be forced to take up subjects by thepressure of their material presence, and Somerset's thoughts were often,to his great loss, apt to be even more than common truants fromthetones and images that met his outer senses on walks and rides. He wouldsometimes go quietly through the queerest, gayest, most extraordinarytown in Europe, and let it alone, provided it did not meddle with himbyits beggars, beauties, innkeepers, police, coachmen, mongrels, badsmells, and such like obstructions. This feat of questionable utility hebegan performing now. Sitting on the three-inch ash rail that had beenpeeled andpolished like glass by the rubbings of all the small-clothesin the parish, he forgot the time, the place, forgot that it wasAugust--in short, everything of the present altogether. His mind flewback to his past life, anddeplored the waste of time that had resultedfrom his not having been able to make up his mind which of the manyfashions of art that were coming and going in kaleidoscopic changewas the true point of departure fromhimself. He had suffered from themodern malady of unlimited appreciativeness as much as any living manof his own age. Dozens of his fellows in years and experience, who hadnever thought specially of the matter,but had blunderingly appliedthemselves to whatever form of art confronted them at the moment oftheir making a move, were by this time acquiring renown as new lights;while he was still unknown. He wished thatsome accident could havehemmed in his eyes between inexorable blinkers, and sped him on in achannel ever so worn.Thus balanced between believing and not believing in his own future,he was recalled to the scenewithout by hearing the notes of a familiarhymn, rising in subdued harmonies from a valley below. He listened moreheedfully. It was his old friend the 'New Sabbath,' which he had neveronce heard since the lisping daysof childhood, and whose existence,much as it had then been to him, he had till this moment quiteforgotten. Where the 'New Sabbath' had kept itself all these years--whythat sound and hearty melody had disappearedfrom all the cathedrals,parish churches, minsters and chapels-of-ease that he had beenacquainted with during his apprenticeship to life, and until his wayshad become irregular and uncongregational--he could not, atfirst,say. But then he recollected that the tune appertained to the oldwest-gallery period of church-music, anterior to the great choralreformation and the rule of Monk--that old time when the repetition ofa word, orhalf-line of a verse, was not considered a disgrace to anecclesiastical choir.Willing to be interested in anything which would keep him out-of-doors,Somerset dismounted from the stile and descended the hill before him,tolearn whence the singing proceeded.II.He found that it had its origin in a building standing alone in a field;and though the evening was not yet dark without, lights shone from thewindows. In a few moments Somersetstood before the edifice. Being justthen en rapport with ecclesiasticism by reason of his recent occupation,he could not help murmuring, 'Shade of Pugin, what a monstrosity!'Perhaps this exclamation (rather out of datesince the discovery thatPugin himself often nodded amazingly) would not have been indulged inby Somerset but for his new architectural resolves, which causedprofessional opinions to advance themselves officiously tohislips whenever occasion offered. The building was, in short, arecently-erected chapel of red brick, with pseudo-classic ornamentation,and the white regular joints of mortar could be seen streaking itssurface ingeometrical oppressiveness from top to bottom. The roof wasof blue slate, clean as a table, and unbroken from gable to gable;the windows were glazed with sheets of plate glass, a temporary ironstovepipe passing outnear one of these, and running up to the height ofthe ridge, where it was finished by a covering like a parachute. Walkinground to the end, he perceived an oblong white stone let into the walljust above the plinth, onwhich was inscribed in deep letters:--               Erected 187-,          AT THE SOLE EXPENSE OF          JOHN POWER, ESQ., M.P.The 'New Sabbath' still proceeded line by line, with all the emotionalswells and cadencesthat had of old characterized the tune: and the bodyof vocal harmony that it evoked implied a large congregation within, towhom it was plainly as familiar as it had been to church-goers of a pastgeneration. With awhimsical sense of regret at the secession of hisonce favourite air Somerset moved away, and would have quite withdrawnfrom the field had he not at that moment observed two young men withpitchers of watercoming up from a stream hard by, and hastening withtheir burdens into the chapel vestry by a side door. Almost as soon asthey had entered they emerged again with empty pitchers, and proceededto the stream to fillthem as before, an operation which they repeatedseveral times. Somerset went forward to the stream, and waited till theyoung men came out again.'You are carrying in a great deal of water,' he said, as each dippedhispitcher.One of the young men modestly replied, 'Yes: we filled the cistern thismorning; but it leaks, and requires a few pitcherfuls more.''Why do you do it?''There is to be a baptism, sir.'Somerset was not sufficientlyinterested to develop a furtherconversation, and observing them in silence till they had again vanishedinto the building, he went on his way. Reaching the brow of the hill hestopped and looked back. The chapel was stillin view, and the shadesof night having deepened, the lights shone from the windows yet morebrightly than before. A few steps further would hide them and theedifice, and all that belonged to it from his sight, possiblyfor ever.There was something in the thought which led him to linger. The chapelhad neither beauty, quaintness, nor congeniality to recommend it: thedissimilitude between the new utilitarianism of the place and thescenesof venerable Gothic art which had occupied his daylight hours could notwell be exceeded. But Somerset, as has been said, was an instrumentof no narrow gamut: he had a key for other touches than thepurelyaesthetic, even on such an excursion as this. His mind was arrested bythe intense and busy energy which must needs belong to an assembly thatrequired such a glare of light to do its religion by; in the heavingofthat tune there was an earnestness which made him thoughtful, and theshine of those windows he had characterized as ugly reminded him of theshining of the good deed in a naughty world. The chapel and itsshabbyplot of ground, from which the herbage was all trodden away by busyfeet, had a living human interest that the numerous minsters andchurches knee-deep in fresh green grass, visited by him during theforegoingweek, had often lacked. Moreover, there was going to be abaptism: that meant the immersion of a grown-up person; and he hadbeen told that Baptists were serious people and that the scene was mostimpressive. Whatmanner of man would it be who on an ordinary ploddingand bustling evening of the nineteenth century could single himself outas one different from the rest of the inhabitants, banish all shyness,and come forward toundergo such a trying ceremony? Who was he thathad pondered, gone into solitudes, wrestled with himself, worked up hiscourage and said, I will do this, though few else will, for I believe itto be my duty?Whether onaccount of these thoughts, or from the circumstance thathe had been alone amongst the tombs all day without communion with hiskind, he could not tell in after years (when he had good reason to thinkof the subject);but so it was that Somerset went back, and again stoodunder the chapel-wall.Instead of entering he passed round to where the stove-chimney camethrough the bricks, and holding on to the iron stay he put his toesonthe plinth and looked in at the window. The building was quite full ofpeople belonging to that vast majority of society who are denied theart of articulating their higher emotions, and crave dumbly forafugleman--respectably dressed working people, whose faces and forms wereworn and contorted by years of dreary toil. On a platform at the endof the chapel a haggard man of more than middle age, with greywhiskersascetically cut back from the fore part of his face so far as to bealmost banished from the countenance, stood reading a chapter. Betweenthe minister and the congregation was an open space, and in the floor


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse, by Beatrix PotterThis 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 it underthe terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Tale of Mrs. TittlemouseAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: November 18, 2005 [EBook #17089]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSE ***Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Emmy and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net[Illustration:Mrs. Tittlemouse & Bees]THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSEBy BEATRIX POTTERAuthor of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit" etc.[Illustration: Mrs. Tittlemouse & Butterfly]FREDERICK WARNEFREDERICK WARNEPenguin BooksLtd, Harmondsworth, Middlesex, EnglandViking Penguin Inc., 40 West 23rd Street, New York, New York 10010, U.S.A.Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, AustraliaPenguin Books Canada Ltd, 2801 JohnStreet, Markham, Ontario, Canada L3R 1B4Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New ZealandFirst published 1910This impression 1985Universal Copyright Notice:Copyright Â© 1910 byFrederick Warne & Co.Copyright in all countries signatory to the Berne Convention          All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights          under copyright reserved above, no part of this          publication may bereproduced, stored in or          introduced into a retrieval system, or          transmitted, in any form or by any means          (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording          or otherwise), without the priorwritten          permission of both the copyright owner and the          above publisher of this book.Printed and bound in Great Britain byWilliam Clowes Limited, Beccles and LondonNELLIE'SLITTLE BOOK[Illustration: Mrs.Tittlemouse at the Door]Once upon a time there was a wood-mouse, and her name was Mrs.Tittlemouse.She lived in a bank under a hedge.Such a funny house! There were yards and yards of sandy passages,leading tostorerooms and nut-cellars and seed-cellars, all amongst theroots of the hedge.[Illustration: In the pantry][Illustration: In bed]There was a kitchen, a parlour, a pantry, and a larder.Also, there was Mrs. Tittlemouse'sbedroom, where she slept in a littlebox bed!Mrs. Tittlemouse was a most terribly tidy particular little mouse,always sweeping and dusting the soft sandy floors.Sometimes a beetle lost its way in the passages."Shuh!shuh! little dirty feet!" said Mrs. Tittlemouse, clattering herdust-pan.[Illustration: Shooing a beetle][Illustration: A ladybird]And one day a little old woman ran up and down in a red spotty cloak."Your house is on fire,Mother Ladybird! Fly away home to yourchildren!"Another day, a big fat spider came in to shelter from the rain."Beg pardon, is this not Miss Muffet's?""Go away, you bold bad spider! Leaving ends of cobweb all over myniceclean house!"[Illustration: Spider][Illustration: Out the window]She bundled the spider out at a window.He let himself down the hedge with a long thin bit of string.Mrs. Tittlemouse went on her way to a distantstoreroom, to fetchcherry-stones and thistle-down seed for dinner.All along the passage she sniffed, and looked at the floor."I smell a smell of honey; is it the cowslips outside, in the hedge? Iam sure I can see themarks of little dirty feet."[Illustration: Marks of little feet][Illustration: Babbitty Bumble]Suddenly round a corner, she met Babbitty Bumble--"Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz!"said the bumble bee.Mrs. Tittlemouse looked at herseverely. She wished that she had abroom."Good-day, Babbitty Bumble; I should be glad to buy some beeswax. Butwhat are you doing down here? Why do you always come in at a window, andsay Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz?"Mrs. Tittlemouse began to get cross."Zizz, Wizz, Wizzz!" replied Babbitty Bumble in a peevish squeak. Shesidled down a passage, and disappeared into a storeroom which had beenused for acorns.Mrs. Tittlemouse hadeaten the acorns before Christmas; the storeroomought to have been empty.But it was full of untidy dry moss.[Illustration: Full of moss][Illustration: Bees nest]Mrs. Tittlemouse began to pull out the moss. Three orfour other beesput their heads out, and buzzed fiercely."I am not in the habit of letting lodgings; this is an intrusion!" saidMrs. Tittlemouse. "I will have them turned out--" "Buzz! Buzz!Buzzz!"--"I wonder who wouldhelp me?" "Bizz, Wizz, Wizzz!"--"I will not have Mr. Jackson; he never wipes his feet."Mrs. Tittlemouse decided to leave the bees till after dinner.When she got back to the parlour, she heard some one coughing in afatvoice; and there sat Mr. Jackson himself!He was sitting all over a small rocking-chair, twiddling his thumbs andsmiling, with his feet on the fender.He lived in a drain below the hedge, in a very dirty wetditch.[Illustration: Mr. Jackson][Illustration: Sitting and dripping]"How do you do, Mr. Jackson? Deary me, you have got very wet!""Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! I'll sit awhile anddry myself," saidMr. Jackson.He sat and smiled, and the water dripped off his coat tails. Mrs.Tittlemouse went round with a mop.He sat such a while that he had to be asked if he would take somedinner?First she offered himcherry-stones. "Thank you, thank you, Mrs.Tittlemouse! No teeth, no teeth, no teeth!" said Mr. Jackson.He opened his mouth most unnecessarily wide; he certainly had not atooth in his head.[Illustration: Feeding Mr.Jackson][Illustration: Thistledown]Then she offered him thistle-down seed--"Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Pouff,pouff, puff!" said Mr. Jackson. He blew the thistle-down all over theroom."Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs.Tittlemouse! Now what Ireally--_really_ should like--would be a little dish of honey!""I am afraid I have not got any, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Tittlemouse."Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse!" said the smilingMr.Jackson, "I can _smell_ it; that is why I came to call."Mr. Jackson rose ponderously from the table, and began to look into thecupboards.Mrs. Tittlemouse followed him with a dish-cloth, to wipe his largewetfootmarks off the parlour floor.[Illustration: Wiping up footmarks][Illustration: Walking down the passage]When he had convinced himself that there was no honey in the cupboards,he began to walk down thepassage."Indeed, indeed, you will stick fast, Mr. Jackson!""Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse!"First he squeezed into the pantry."Tiddly, widdly, widdly? no honey? no honey, Mrs. Tittlemouse?"There were threecreepy-crawly people hiding in the plate-rack. Two ofthem got away; but the littlest one he caught.[Illustration: Creepy-crawly people][Illustration: Butterfly tasting the sugar]Then he squeezed into the larder. MissButterfly was tasting the sugar;but she flew away out of the window."Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse; you seem to have plenty ofvisitors!""And without any invitation!" said Mrs. Thomasina Tittlemouse.Theywent along the sandy passage--"Tiddly widdly--" "Buzz! Wizz! Wizz!"He met Babbitty round a corner, and snapped her up, and put her downagain."I do not like bumble bees. They are all over bristles," said Mr.Jackson,wiping his mouth with his coat-sleeve."Get out, you nasty old toad!" shrieked Babbitty Bumble."I shall go distracted!" scolded Mrs. Tittlemouse.[Illustration: Confronting the Bee][Illustration: Shut into thenut-cellar]She shut herself up in the nut-cellar while Mr. Jackson pulled out thebees-nest. He seemed to have no objection to stings.When Mrs. Tittlemouse ventured to come out--everybody had gone away.But theuntidiness was something dreadful--"Never did I see such amess--smears of honey; and moss, and thistledown--and marks of big andlittle dirty feet--all over my nice clean house!"She gathered up the moss and theremains of the beeswax.Then she went out and fetched some twigs, to partly close up the frontdoor."I will make it too small for Mr. Jackson!"[Illustration: Closing up the front door][Illustration: Too tired]She fetchedsoft soap, and flannel, and a new scrubbing brush from thestoreroom. But she was too tired to do any more. First she fell asleepin her chair, and then she went to bed."Will it ever be tidy again?" said poor Mrs.Tittlemouse.Next morning she got up very early and began a spring cleaning whichlasted a fortnight.She swept, and scrubbed, and dusted; and she rubbed up the furniturewith beeswax, and polished her little tinspoons.[Illustration: Polishing]When it was all beautifully neat and clean, she gave a party to fiveother little mice, without Mr. Jackson.He smelt the party and came up the bank, but he could not squeeze in atthedoor.[Illustration: The party][Illustration: Honey-dew through the window]So they handed him out acorn-cupfuls of honey-dew through the window,and he was not at all offended.He sat outside in the sun, andsaid--"Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Your verygood health, Mrs. Tittlemouse!"THE END       *       *       *       *       *Transcriber's Note: Punctuation normalized and captions added toillustrations.End of Project Gutenberg'sThe Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSE ******** This file should be named 17089-8.txt or 17089-8.zip *****This and allassociated files of various formats will be found in:        http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/0/8/17089/Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Emmy and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.netUpdatededitions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!)can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyright royalties.  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ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Abbe Mouretâs Transgression, by Emile ZolaThis 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.orgTitle: Abbe Mouretâs Transgression       La Faute De Lâabbe MouretAuthor: Emile ZolaEditor:Ernest Alfred VizetellyRelease Date: November 28, 2004 [EBook #14200]Posting Date: May 29, 2009Last Updated: September 5, 2016Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK ABBE MOURETâS TRANSGRESSION ***Produced by Dagny; and David WidgerABBE MOURETâS TRANSGRESSIONBy Emile ZolaEdited with an Introduction by Ernest AlfredVizetellyINTRODUCTIONâLA FAUTE DE LâABBE MOURETâ was, with respect to the date ofpublication, the fourth volume of M. Zolaâs âRougon-Macquartâ series;but in the amended and finalscheme of that great literary undertaking,it occupies the ninth place. It proceeds from the sixth volume of theseries, âThe Conquest of Plassans;â which is followed by the two worksthat deal with the career ofOctave Mouret, Abbe Serge Mouretâs elderbrother. In âThe Conquest of Plassans,â Serge and his half-wittedsister, Desiree, are seen in childhood at their home in Plassans, whichis wrecked by the doings ofa certain Abbe Faujas and his relatives.Serge Mouret grows up, is called by an instinctive vocation to thepriesthood, and becomes parish priest of Les Artaud, a well-nigh paganhamlet in one of those bare, burningstretches of country with whichProvence abounds. And here it is that âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouretâ opensin the old ruinous church, perched upon a hillock in full view of thesqualid village, the arid fields, andthe great belts of rock which shutin the landscape all around.There are two elements in this remarkable story, which, from thestandpoint of literary style, has never been excelled by anything thatM. Zola has sincewritten; and one may glance at it therefore from twopoints of view. Taking it under its sociological and religious aspect,it will be found to be an indirect indictment of the celibacy of thepriesthood; that celibacy, contraryto Natureâs fundamental law, whichassuredly has largely influenced the destinies of the Roman CatholicChurch. To that celibacy, and to all the evils that have sprang fromit, may be ascribed much of the irreligioncurrent in France to-day.The periodical reports on criminality issued by the French Ministers ofJustice since the foundation of the Republic in 1871, supply materialsfor a most formidable indictment of that vow ofperpetual chastity whichRome exacts from her clergy. Nowadays it is undoubtedly too late forRome to go back upon that vow and thereby transform the whole of hersacerdotal organisation; but, perhaps, had she doneso in past times,before the spirit of inquiry and free examination came into being, shemight have assured herself many more centuries of supremacy than havefallen to her lot. But she has ever sought to dissociate thelaw of theDivinity from the law of Nature, as though indeed the latter were butthe invention of the Fiend.Abbe Mouret, M. Zolaâs hero, finds himself placed between the law ofthe Divinity and the law of Nature: andthe struggle waged within him bythose two forces is a terrible one. That which training has implantedin his mind proves the stronger, and, so far as the canons of the Churchcan warrant it, he saves his soul. But theproblem is not quite franklyput by M. Zola; for if Abbe Mouret transgresses he does so unwittingly,at a time when he is unconscious of his priesthood and has no memory ofany vow. When the truth flashes upon him heis horrified with himself,and forthwith returns to the Church. A further struggle between thecontending forces then certainly ensues, and ends in the final victoryof the Church. But it must at least be said that in thelapses whichoccur in real life among the Roman priesthood, the circumstances arealtogether different from those which M. Zola has selected for hisstory.The truth is that in âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouret,âbetwixt lifelikeglimpses of French rural life, the author transports us to a realm ofpoesy and imagination. This is, indeed, so true that he has introducedinto his work all the ideas on which he had based an earlyunfinishedpoem called âGenesis.â He carries us to an enchanted garden,the Paradou--a name which one need hardly say is Provencal forParadise*--and there Serge Mouret, on recovering from brainfever,becomes, as it were, a new Adam by the side of a new Eve, the fair andwinsome Albine. All this part of the book, then, is poetry in prose.The author has remembered the ties which link Rousseau to therealisticschool of fiction, and, as in the pages of Jean-Jacques, trees, springs,mountains, rocks, and flowers become animated beings and claim theirplace in the worldâs mechanism. One may indeed go back farbeyondRousseau, even to Lucretius himself; for more than once we areirresistibly reminded of Lucretian scenes, above which through M. Zolaâspages there seems to hover the pronouncement of Sophocles:     Noordinance of man shall override     The settled laws of Nature and of God;     Not written these in pages of a book,     Nor were they framed to-day, nor yesterday;     We know not whence they are; but this weknow,     That they from all eternity have been,     And shall to all eternity endure.  * There is a village called Paradou in Provence, between    Les Baux and Arles.And if we pass to the young pair whose duo of love issung amidst thevaried voices of creation, we are irresistibly reminded of the Pauland Virginia of St. Pierre, and the Daphnis and Chloe of Longus. Besidethem, in their marvellous garden, lingers a memory too of ManonandDes Grieux, with a suggestion of Lauzun and a glimpse of the art ofFragonard. All combine, all contribute--from the great classics to theeighteenth century _petits maitres_--to build up a story of loveâs risein thehuman breast in answer to Natureâs promptings.M. Zola wrote âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouretâ one summer under the trees ofhis garden, mindful the while of gardens that he had known in childhood:theflowery expanse which had stretched before his grandmotherâs homeat Pont-au-Beraud and the wild estate of Galice, between Roquefavour andAix-en-Provence, through which he had roamed as a lad with friendsthenboys like himself: Professor Baille and Cezanne, the painter. And intohis description of the wondrous Paradou he has put all his remembranceof the gardens and woods of Provence, where many a plant andflowerthrive with a luxuriance unknown to England. True, in order to refreshhis memory and avoid mistakes, he consulted various horticulturalmanuals whilst he was writing; of which circumstance captious criticshavereadily laid hold, to proclaim that the description of the Paradouis a mere floristâs catalogue.But it is nothing of the kind. The florist who might dare to offersuch a catalogue to the public would be speedily assailedby all thehorticultural journalists of England and all the customers of villadom.For M. Zola avails himself of a poetâs license to crowd marvel uponmarvel, to exaggerate natureâs forces, to transform the tiniestbloomsinto giant examples of efflorescence, and to mingle even the seasonsone with the other. But all this was premeditated; there was a picturebefore his mindâs eye, and that picture he sought to trace with hispen,regardless of all possible objections. It is the poetâs privilege todo this and even to be admired for it. It would be easy for some leanedbotanist, some expert zoologist, to demolish Milton from the standpointoftheir respective sciences, but it would be absurd to do so. We ask ofthe poet the flowers of his imagination, and the further he carries usfrom the sordid realities, the limited possibilities of life, the moreare we grateful tohim.And M. Zolaâs Paradou is a flight of fancy, even as its mistress, thefair, loving, guileless Albine, whose smiles and whose tears alike goto our hearts, is the daughter of imagination. She is a flower--theveryflower of lifeâs youth--in the midst of all the blossoms of hergarden. She unfolds to life and to love even as they unfold; she lovesrapturously even as they do under the sun and the azure; and she dieswith themwhen the sunâs caress is gone and the chill of winter hasfallen. At the thought of her, one instinctively remembers MalherbeâsâOde A Du Perrier:â     She to this earth belonged, where beautyfast          To direst fate is borne:     A rose, she lasted, as the roses last,          Only for one brief morn.French painters have made subjects of many episodes in M. Zolaâsworks, but none has been more popularwith them than Albineâs pathetic,perfumed death amidst the flowers. I know several paintings of greatmerit which that touching incident has inspired.Albine, if more or less unreal, a phantasm, the spirit as it wereofNature incarnate in womanhood, is none the less the most delightful ofM. Zolaâs heroines. She smiles at us like the vision of perfect beautyand perfect love which rises before us when our hearts are yet youngandfull of illusions. She is the ideal, the very quintessence of woman.In Serge Mouret, her lover, we find a man who, in more than one respect,recalls M. Zolaâs later hero, the Abbe Froment of âLourdesâand âRome.âHe has the same loving, yearning nature; he is born--absolutely likeAbbe Froment--of an unbelieving father and a mother of mystical mind.But unlike Froment he cannot shake off the shackles ofhis priesthood.Reborn to life after his dangerous illness, he relapses into thereligion of death, the religion which regards life as impurity, whichdenies Natureâs laws, and so often wrecks human existence, as ifindeedthat had been the Divine purpose in setting man upon earth. Hisstruggles suggest various passages in âLourdesâ and âRome.â In fact, inwriting those works, M. Zola must have had his earlier creationinmind. There are passages in âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouretâ culled from thewritings of the Spanish Jesuit Fathers and the âImitationâ of Thomasa Kempis that recur almost word for word in theTrilogy of the ThreeCities. Some might regard this as evidence of the limitation of M.Zolaâs powers, but I think differently. I consider that he has in bothinstances designedly taken the same type of priest in order toshow howhe may live under varied circumstances; for in the earlier instancehe has led him to one goal, and in the later one to another. And thepassages of prayer, entreaty, and spiritual conflict simply recurbecausethey are germane, even necessary, to the subject in both cases.Of the minor characters that figure in âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouretâ thechief thing to be said is that they are lifelike. If Serge is almostwhollyspiritual, if Albine is the daughter of poesy, they, the others,are of the earth earthy. As a result of their appearance on the scene,there are some powerful contrasting passages in the book. Archangias,the coarse andbrutal Christian Brother who serves as a foil to AbbeMouret; La Teuse, the priestâs garrulous old housekeeper; Desiree, hisâinnocentâ sister, a grown woman with the mind of a child and an almostcrazyaffection for every kind of bird and beast, are all admirablyportrayed. Old Bambousse, though one sees but little of him, standsout as a genuine type of the hard-headed French peasant, who invariablyplaces pecuniaryconsiderations before all others. And Fortune andRosalie, Vincent and Catherine, and their companions, are equally trueto nature. It need hardly be said that there is many a village in Francesimilar to Les Artaud. Thathamletâs shameless, purely animal life hasin no wise been over-pictured by M. Zola. Those who might doubt him neednot go as far as Provence to find such communities. Many Norman hamletsare every whit asbad, and, in Normandy, conditions are aggravated by amarked predilection for the bottle, which, as French social-scientistshave been pointing out for some years now, is fast hastening thedegenerescence of thepeasantry, both morally and physically.With reference to the English version of âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouretâherewith presented, I may just say that I have subjected it toconsiderable revision and haveretranslated all the more importantpassages myself.     MERTON, SURREY.                                    E. A. V.ABBE MOURETâS TRANSGRESSIONBOOK IIAs La Teuse entered the church she rested her broom andfeather-brushagainst the altar. She was late, as she had that day began herhalf-yearly wash. Limping more than ever in her haste and hustling thebenches, she went down the church to ring the _Angelus_. The bare,wornbell-rope dangled from the ceiling near the confessional, and ended in abig knot greasy from handling. Again and again, with regular jumps, shehung herself upon it; and then let her whole bulky figure go withit,whirling in her petticoats, her cap awry, and her blood rushing to herbroad face.Having set her cap straight with a little pat, she came back breathlessto give a hasty sweep before the altar. Every day the dustpersistentlysettled between the disjoined boards of the platform. Her broom rummagedamong the corners with an angry rumble. Then she lifted the altar coverand was sorely vexed to find that the large upper cloth,already darnedin a score of places, was again worn through in the very middle, soas to show the under cloth, which in its turn was so worn and sotransparent that one could see the consecrated stone, embedded inthepainted wood of the altar. La Teuse dusted the linen, yellow from longusage, and plied her feather-brush along the shelf against which she setthe liturgical altar-cards. Then, climbing upon a chair, she removedtheyellow cotton covers from the crucifix and two of the candlesticks. Thebrass of the latter was tarnished.âDear me!â she muttered, âthey really want a clean! I must give them apolish up!âThenhopping on one leg, swaying and stumping heavily enough to drive inthe flagstones, she hastened to the sacristy for the Missal, whichshe placed unopened on the lectern on the Epistle side, with its edgesturned towardsthe middle of the altar. And afterwards she lighted thetwo candles. As she went off with her broom, she gave a glance roundher to make sure that the abode of the Divinity had been put in properorder. All was still, savethat the bell-rope near the confessionalstill swung between roof and floor with a sinuous sweep.Abbe Mouret had just come down to the sacristy, a small and chillyapartment, which a passage separated from hisdining-room.âGood morning, Monsieur le Cure,â said La Teuse, laying her broom aside.âOh! you have been lazy this morning! Do you know itâs a quarter pastsix?â And without allowing the smilingyoung priest sufficient time toreply, she added âIâve a scolding to give you. Thereâs another hole inthe cloth again. Thereâs no sense in it. We have only one other, andIâve been ruining my eyesover it these three days in trying to mend it.You will leave our poor Lord quite bare, if you go on like this.âAbbe Mouret was still smiling. âJesus does not need so much linen, mygood Teuse,â he cheerfullyreplied. âHe is always warm, always royallyreceived by those who love Him well.âThen stepping towards a small tap, he asked: âIs my sister up yet? Ihave not seen her.ââOh, Mademoiselle Desireehas been down a long time,â answered theservant, who was kneeling before an old kitchen sideboard in which thesacred vestments were kept. âShe is already with her fowls and rabbits.She was expecting somechicks to be hatched yesterday, and it didnâtcome off. So you can guess her excitement.â Then the worthy woman brokeoff to inquire: âThe gold chasuble, eh?âThe priest, who had washed his handsand stood reverently murmuring aprayer, nodded affirmatively. The parish possessed only three chasubles:a violet one, a black one, and one in cloth-of-gold. The last had to beused on the days when white, red, orgreen was prescribed by the ritual,and it was therefore an all important garment. La Teuse lifted itreverently from the shelf covered with blue paper, on which she laidit after each service; and having placed it on thesideboard, shecautiously removed the fine cloths which protected its embroidery. Agolden lamb slumbered on a golden cross, surrounded by broad rays ofgold. The gold tissue, frayed at the folds, broke out in littleslendertufts; the embossed ornaments were getting tarnished and worn. There wasperpetual anxiety, fluttering concern, at seeing it thus go off spangleby spangle. The priest had to wear it almost every day. And howon earthcould it be replaced--how would they be able to buy the three chasubleswhose place it took, when the last gold threads should be worn out?Upon the chasuble La Teuse next laid out the stole, the maniple,thegirdle, alb and amice. But her tongue still wagged while she crossedthe stole with the maniple, and wreathed the girdle so as to trace thevenerated initial of Maryâs holy name.âThat girdle is not up to muchnow,â she muttered; âyou will have tomake up your mind to get another, your reverence. It wouldnât be veryhard; I could plait you one myself if I only had some hemp.âAbbe Mouret made no answer.He was dressing the chalice at a smalltable. A large old silver-gilt chalice it was with a bronze base, whichhe had just taken from the bottom of a deal cupboard, in which thesacred vessels and linen, the Holy Oils, theMissals, candlesticks, andcrosses were kept. Across the cup he laid a clean purificator, and onthis set the silver-gilt paten, with the host in it, which he coveredwith a small lawn pall. As he was hiding the chalice bygatheringtogether the folds in the veil of cloth of gold matching the chasuble,La Teuse exclaimed:âStop, thereâs no corporal in the burse. Last night I took all thedirty purificators, palls, and corporals to washthem--separately, ofcourse--not with the house-wash. By-the-bye, your reverence, I didnâttell you: I have just started the house-wash. A fine fat one it will be!Better than the last.âThen while the priest slippeda corporal into the burse and laid thelatter on the veil, she went on quickly:âBy-the-bye, I forgot! that gadabout Vincent hasnât come. Do you wish meto serve your mass, your reverence?âThe young priesteyed her sternly.âWell, it isnât a sin,â she continued, with her genial smile. âI didserve a mass once, in Monsieur Caffinâs time. I serve it better, too,than ragamuffins who laugh like heathens atseeing a fly buzzing aboutthe church. True I may wear a cap, I may be sixty years old, and asround as a tub, but I have more respect for our Lord than those imps ofboys whom I caught only the other day playing atleap-frog behind thealtar.âThe priest was still looking at her and shaking his head.âWhat a hole this village is!â she grumbled. âNot a hundred and fiftypeople in it! There are days, like to-day, when youwouldnât find aliving soul in Les Artaud. Even the babies in swaddling clothes aregone to the vineyards! And goodness knows what they do among suchvines--vines that grow under the pebbles and look as dry asthistles! Aperfect wilderness, three miles from any highway! Unless an angel comesdown to serve your mass, your reverence, youâve only got me to help you,on my honour! or one of Mademoiselle Desireeâsrabbits, no offence toyour reverence!âJust at that moment, however, Vincent, the Brichetsâ younger son, gentlyopened the door of the sacristy. His shock of red hair and his little,glistening, grey eyesexasperated La Teuse.âOh! the wretch!â she cried. âIâll bet heâs just been up to somemischief! Come on, you scamp, since his reverence is afraid I mightdirty our Lord!âOn seeing the lad, AbbeMouret had taken up the amice. He kissed thecross embroidered in the centre of it, and for a second laid the clothupon his head; then lowering it over the collar-band of his cassock, hecrossed it and fastened the tapes,the right one over the left. He nextdonned the alb, the symbol of purity, beginning with the right sleeve.Vincent stooped and turned around him, adjusting the alb, in orderthat it should fall evenly all round him to acouple of inches fromthe ground. Then he presented the girdle to the priest, who fastenedit tightly round his loins, as a reminder of the bonds wherewith theSaviour was bound in His Passion.La Teuse remained standingthere, feeling jealous and hurt andstruggling to keep silence; but so great was the itching of her tongue,that she soon broke out once more: âBrother Archangias has been here.He wonât have a single child at


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                             CELESTE AND JESSE FOREVER                                                             Writtenby                                                   Rashida Jones & Will McCormack                                                                                5.01.11          1MONTAGE OVER THE OPENING CREDITS TO SUNNY LEVINE'S "LOVE 1                          RHINO":                                    A progression of images of CELESTE and JESSE, ages 18 to 30.           Visualmedia evolves with them throughout the years.                                                            A1 POLAROIDS OF HIGH SCHOOL MOMENTS: A1           Celeste is a chronic overachiever and Jesse is sweet,goofy           and funny. He makes her laugh. They are best friends but it's           clear that Jesse wishes they were more.           Close-up of their hands crossed, making "C" and "J" shapes.           Celeste and herfootball player boyfriend, Mike, kissing.           Jesse watches enviously from the sidelines, holding Mike's           helmet.                                                            B1 DIPOSABLE CAMERA PHOTOS:B1           They go to college together, study together, drink together.           They are still best friends.           Junior year, Celeste with Saleem, her hot, black militant           boyfriend. They kisspassionately.           A moment later, Jesse poses reluctantly with the couple,           holding up a "Black Power" fist, weakly.                                                            C1 SUPER 8 FOOTAGE: C1           Senioryear, Jesse draws "C AND J FOREVER" in a pristine,           snowy forest with a stick; he and Celeste laugh.           A moment later, they kiss deeply. They are finallytogether.                                                            D1 DIGITAL VIDEO FOOTAGE OF "CELESTE AND JESSE FOREVER": D1           On an engraved necklace, carved into a tree, written on a           wet beach,and on their wedding cake.                                                            E1 BLACK AND WHITE HI-RES PHOTOS SHOW THEM MARRIED: E1           Moving into their house, dancing, reading side byside,           kissing. This is true, everlasting love, the real kind.                                                            F1 SHUTTERFLY ALBUM PHOTOS FROM FRIENDS' PARTIES: F1           Celeste and Jesse, in silence,amongst joyful party guests.           Jesse telling a joke and Celeste no longer laughing.           Jesse and Celeste on a bench, distant.           The next picture, hugging.                                                            G1MACBOOK PHOTO BOOTH SNAPSHOT: G1           Jesse asleep on Celeste's shoulder as she kisses him on the           head.           2.                                                            2 INT. TOYOTAPRIUS-DAY 2                                    It's a bright, clear Los Angeles Saturday afternoon. Celeste           and Jesse, now 30, both sing along to "Love Rhino," the song           heard under the montage. Jesse driveswhile Celeste is on her           Blackberry. Jesse, boyishly handsome, wears an old tee and a           hooded sweatshirt. Celeste is wearing all black workout           gear. She is always wearing allblack.                                                   JESSE           I'm a Love Rhino...                                                   CELESTE JESSE           Don't worry `bout me, I've Dont' worry `bout me, I've           gota enough love for got enough love, for the two           the...(her Blackberry rings) us. Oh please...           oh shit, I gotta take this.           Turn it down.                                    JESSE (CONT'D)(CONTD)           ...I'm a Love...                                                   CELESTE           Jess, turn it down, seriously!                                    She playfully slaps him. He turns it down. Alittle.                                    CELESTE (CONT'D) (CONTD)           Hello? Hi. With Jesse, running           errands. (to Jesse) Turn it down.           More. (back to the phone) Yeah, I           can do it now. No, it'llbe fast,           right? (To Jesse) Hey, I have to           give a quick sound bite for the New           York Times, so no noise please? For           a second?                                                   JESSE           Maybe. Imay have an important call           coming in too, so...                                    They both know he has no important call coming in.                                                   CELESTE           (on the phone) Okay.Ready? This           year all trends point towards           simplicity and comfort.                                    Celeste is momentarily distracted by a bad driver in front of           them.                                    CELESTE(CONT'D) (CONTD)           Jess, just go around him! (To the           phone) Sorry.                          (MORE)           3.                                    CELESTE (CONT'D)(CONTD)           Consumers will be less likely to go           out for entertainment.                                   While Celeste is dictating, Jesse is getting bored. He starts          looking through the middle console. Hefinds something. A          melted tube of Chapstick. Ew. Ooh, a cigarette. Jesse lights          the cigarette, takes a drag. Celeste looks at Jesse and          signals to him, "Can I have adrag?"                                    CELESTE (CONT'D) (CONTD)           Uhhh, things like Voodoo, casual           wear and cookbooks will see a huge           spike in the market.                                   He handsher the cigarette and she promptly chucks it out the          window.                                                   JESSE           What the shit??                                                   CELESTE           (she whispersto Jesse) Shhh. Phone           call.(back to her call) That's           enough of a blurb, right?                                   Jesse is now checking out nose hairs in the visor mirror. He          then looks at histeeth.                                                   JESSE           Does this tooth look dark?                                   Celeste just glares at him.                                                   CELESTE           Okay. Call meback if they need           more.                                   Jesse looks at his tooth again in the rearview mirror.                                                   JESSE           Like a little darker than therest?                                   Celeste waves her hand to quiet Jesse.                                                   CELESTE           Okay, thanks bye. (to Jesse) Can't           you just sit still for two minutes?           Andwe talked about this, no more           smoking!                                                   JESSE           I wasn't smoking, I just foundit.           4.                                                                            CELESTE           Come on.                                    They drive by "Urban Light," Chris Burden's installation at           the entrance ofLACMA. They are rows of restored street           lamps. Celeste sneers.                                    CELESTE (CONT'D) (CONTD)           Really? Street lamps? No. Not doin'           it. That is notart.                                                   JESSE           I think it's beautiful.                                    A beat passes. Then, Jesse pulls over.                                                   CELESTE           What areyou doing? Why are you           stopping?                                                   JESSE           Well, your appointment is not until           noon and this is that place with           the deadstock vintageItalian           fabric. I thought it would be good           for the guest room windows.                                    Celeste is truly touched by the gesture.                                                   CELESTE           Ohwow...you are so thoughtful.                                    Jesse smiles, proud of himself.                                    CELESTE (CONT'D) (CONTD)           Thanks, Jess.                                    She gives him a kiss onthe cheek. Jesse's phone rings, he           answers.                                                   JESSE           Whassup, muthafucka??                                    Celeste rolls her eyes and gets out of the car to lookat           fabric.                                                   CUT TO:                                                            3 INT. TOYOTA PRIUS-10 MINUTES LATER 3                                    Celeste is getting back inthe car with some fabric swatches.           5.                                                                            CELESTE           Jess, that place is insane. They           have tassels that weremanufactured           for Mussolini's mistress...                                                   JESSE           (covering the phone) Sorry, I'm on           the phone. It'simportant.                                                   CELESTE           Okay then.                                   Celeste sits quietly while Jesse is on his call.                                                   JESSE           Really?I just...don't know what to           say. Thank you so much for calling           me.                                   Celeste throws her hands up in silentcelebration.                                                   CELESTE           (whispers) Did you get the job??                                   Jesse signals with his finger, "oneminute."                                                   JESSE           Well, sometimes things are just           meant to work out.                                   Celeste looks at him withanticipation.                                    JESSE (CONT'D) (CONTD)           Okay, great. Great. Talk soon. Bye.                                                   CELESTE           Was that the job? Did you getthe           book job?                                                   JESSE           No, but Celeste...                                   He looks at her and grabs her hand, with tears in his eyes.                                    JESSE(CONT'D) (CONTD)           ...a swell came in last night. Out           of the Northeast. It's overhead and           it's glassy.                                                   CELESTE           What the fuck are youtalking           about?           6.                                                                            JESSE          Malibu. The waves are peelingout          there.                                                   CELESTE          Is this about surfing? You're          talking about goingsurfing.          Unbelievable.                                                   JESSE          No, this is best part. Skillz got a          hi-def digital camera and he's          gonna filmme!!!                                                   CELESTE          Oh, god.                                                   JESSE          And we're gonna upload it on