ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Return of the Soldier, by Rebecca WestThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-useit under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Return of the SoldierAuthor: Rebecca WestRelease Date: August 24, 2011 [EBook#37189]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER ***Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)[Illustration: frontispiece]THE RETURNOF THE SOLDIERBYREBECCA WESTNEW [Illustration: colophon] YORKGEORGE H.DORAN COMPANYCOPYRIGHT, 1918,BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANYTHE RETURN OF THE SOLDIER-C-PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICALIST OF ILLUSTRATIONSHe lay there in the confiding relaxation ofachild                                     _Frontispiece_                                                    FACING                                                      PAGE"Give it a brush now and then, like agoodsoul"                                                    6She would get into the four-foot punt thatwas used as a ferry and bring it over veryslowly                                                  66"I oughtn't to do it, oughtI?"                        176THE RETURNOF THE SOLDIERCHAPTER I"Ah, don't begin to fuss!" wailed Kitty. "If a woman began to worry inthese days because her husband hadn't written to her for a fortnight!Besides, if he'dbeen anywhere interesting, anywhere where the fightingwas really hot, he'd have found some way of telling me instead of justleaving it as 'Somewhere in France.' He'll be all right."We were sitting in the nursery. I hadnot meant to enter it again, nowthat the child was dead; but I had come suddenly on Kitty as she slippedthe key into the lock, and I had lingered to look in at the high room,so full of whiteness and clear colors, sounendurably gay and familiar,which is kept in all respects as though there were still a child in thehouse. It was the first lavish day of spring, and the sunlight waspouring through the tall, arched windows and theflowered curtains sobrightly that in the old days a fat fist would certainly have beenraised to point out the new, translucent glories of the rosebud.Sunlight was lying in great pools on the blue cork floor and the softrugs,patterned with strange beasts, and threw dancing beams, whichshould have been gravely watched for hours, on the white paint and theblue distempered walls. It fell on the rocking-horse, which had beenChris's idea ofan appropriate present for his year-old son, and showedwhat a fine fellow he was and how tremendously dappled; it picked outMary and her little lamb on the chintz ottoman. And along themantelpiece, under the lovedprint of the snarling tiger, in attitudesthat were at once angular and relaxed, as though they were ready forplay at their master's pleasure, but found it hard to keep from drowsingin this warm weather, sat the TeddyBear and the chimpanzee and thewoolly white dog and the black cat with eyes that roll. Everything wasthere except Oliver. I turned away so that I might not spy on Kittyrevisiting her dead. But she called afterme:"Come here, Jenny. I'm going to dry my hair." And when I looked again Isaw that her golden hair was all about her shoulders and that she woreover her frock a little silken jacket trimmed with rosebuds. Shelookedso like a girl on a magazine cover that one expected to find a large "15cents" somewhere attached to her person. She had taken Nanny's bigbasket-chair from its place by the high-chair, and was pushing it overtothe middle window. "I always come in here when Emery has washed myhair. It's the sunniest room in the house. I wish Chris wouldn't haveit kept as a nursery when there's no chance--" She sat down, swept herhairover the back of the chair into the sunlight, and held out to meher tortoiseshell hair-brush. "Give it a brush now and then, like a goodsoul; but be careful. Tortoise snaps so!"I took the brush and turned to the window,leaning my forehead againstthe glass and staring unobservantly at the view. You probably know thebeauty of that view; for when Chris rebuilt Baldry Court after hismarriage he handed it over to architects who had notso much the wildeye of the artist as the knowing wink of the manicurist, and betweenthem they massaged the dear old place into matter for innumerablephotographs in the illustrated papers. The house lies on the crestofHarrowweald, and from its windows the eye drops to miles of emeraldpasture-land lying wet and brilliant under a westward line of sleekhills; blue with distance and distant woods, while nearer it range thesuavedecorum of the lawn and the Lebanon cedar, the branches of whichare like darkness made palpable, and the minatory gauntnesses of thetopmost pines in the wood that breaks downward, its bare boughs a closetextureof browns and purples, from the pond on the edge of the hill.[Illustration: "Give it a brush now and then, like a good soul"]That day its beauty was an affront to me, because, like mostEnglishwomen of my time, I waswishing for the return of a soldier.Disregarding the national interest and everything else except the keenprehensile gesture of our hearts toward him, I wanted to snatch myCousin Christopher from the wars and sealhim in this green pleasantnesshis wife and I now looked upon. Of late I had had bad dreams about him.By nights I saw Chris running across the brown rottenness ofNo-Man's-Land, starting back here because he trodupon a hand, not evenlooking there because of the awfulness of an unburied head, and not tillmy dream was packed full of horror did I see him pitch forward on hisknees as he reached safety, if it was that. For on thewar-films I haveseen men slip down as softly from the trench-parapet, and none but thegrimmer philosophers could say that they had reached safety by theirfall. And when I escaped into wakefulness it was only to liestiff andthink of stories I had heard in the boyish voice of the modernsubaltern, which rings indomitable, yet has most of its gay notesflattened: "We were all of us in a barn one night, and a shell camealong. My pal sangout, 'Help me, old man; I've got no legs!' and I hadto answer, 'I can't, old man; I've got no hands!'" Well, such are thedreams of Englishwomen to-day. I could not complain, but I wished forthe return of our soldier. So Isaid:"I wish we could hear from Chris. It is a fortnight since he wrote."And then it was that Kitty wailed, "Ah, don't begin to fuss!" and bentover her image in a hand-mirror as one might bend for refreshmentoverscented flowers.I tried to build about me such a little globe of ease as alwaysensphered her, and thought of all that remained good in our lives thoughChris was gone. I was sure that we were preserved from thereproach ofluxury, because we had made a fine place for Chris, one little part ofthe world that was, so far as surfaces could make it so, good enough forhis amazing goodness. Here we had nourished that surpassingamiabilitywhich was so habitual that one took it as one of his physicalcharacteristics, and regarded any lapse into bad temper as a calamity asstartling as the breaking of a leg; here we had made happinessinevitable forhim. I could shut my eyes and think of innumerableproofs of how well we had succeeded, for there never was so visiblycontented a man. And I recalled all that he did one morning just a yearago when he went to thefront.First he had sat in the morning-room and talked and stared out on thelawns that already had the desolation of an empty stage, although he hadnot yet gone; then broke off suddenly and went about the house,lookinginto many rooms. He went to the stables and looked at the horses and hadthe dogs brought out; he refrained from touching them or speaking tothem, as though he felt himself already infected with the squalorof warand did not want to contaminate their bright physical well-being. Thenhe went to the edge of the wood and stood staring down into the clumpsof dark-leaved rhododendrons and the yellow tangle of lastyear'sbracken and the cold winter black of the trees. (From this very window Ihad spied on him.) Then he moved broodingly back to the house to bewith his wife until the moment of his going, when Kitty and I stoodonthe steps to see him motor off to Waterloo. He kissed us both. As hebent over me I noticed once again how his hair was of two colors, brownand gold. Then he got into the car, put on his Tommy air, and said:"Solong! I'll write you from Berlin!" and as he spoke his head droppedback, and he set a hard stare on the house. That meant, I knew, that heloved the life he had lived with us and desired to carry with him to thedrearyplace of death and dirt the complete memory of everything abouthis home, on which his mind could brush when things were at their worst,as a man might finger an amulet through his shirt. This house, this lifewith us,was the core of his heart."If he could come back!" I said. "He was so happy here!"And Kitty answered:"He could not have been happier."It was important that he should have been happy, for, you see, he wasnot likeother city men. When we had played together as children in thatwood he had always shown great faith in the imminence of the improbable.He thought that the birch-tree would really stir and shrink and quickeninto anenchanted princess, that he really was a red Indian, and thathis disguise would suddenly fall from him at the right sundown, that atany moment a tiger might lift red fangs through the bracken, and heexpected thesethings with a stronger motion of the imagination than theordinary child's make-believe. And from a thousand intimations, from hisoccasional clear fixity of gaze on good things as though they were aboutto dissolve intobetter, from the passionate anticipation with which hewent to new countries or met new people, I was aware that this faith hadpersisted into his adult life. He had exchanged his expectation ofbecoming a red Indian forthe equally wistful aspiration of becomingcompletely reconciled to life. It was his hopeless hope that some timehe would have an experience that would act on his life like alchemy,turning to gold all the dark metals ofevents, and from that revelationhe would go on his way rich with an inextinguishable joy. There hadbeen, of course, no chance of his ever getting it. Literally therewasn't room to swing a revelation in his crowded life.First of all, athis father's death he had been obliged to take over a business that wasweighted by the needs of a mob of female relatives who were all uselesseither in the old way, with antimacassars, or in the new way,withgolf-clubs; then Kitty had come along and picked up his conception ofnormal expenditure, and carelessly stretched it as a woman stretches anew glove on her hand. Then there had been the difficult task oflearningto live after the death of his little son. It had lain on us,the responsibility, which gave us dignity, to compensate him for hislack of free adventure by arranging him a gracious life. But now, justbecause our performancehad been so brilliantly adequate, how dreary wasthe empty stage!We were not, perhaps, specially contemptible women, because nothingcould ever really become a part of our life until it had been referredto Chris'sattention. I remember thinking, as the parlor-maid came inwith a card on the tray, how little it mattered who had called and whatflag of prettiness or wit she flew, since there was no chance that Chriswould come in andstand over her, his fairness red in the firelight, andshow her that detached attention, such as an unmusical man pays to goodmusic, which men of anchored affections give to attractive women.Kitty read from thecard:"'Mrs. William Grey, Mariposa, Ladysmith Road, Wealdstone,' I don't knowanybody in _Wealdstone_." That is the name of the red suburban stainwhich fouls the fields three miles nearer London than Harrowweald.Onecannot now protect one's environment as one once could. "Do I know her,Ward? Has she been here before?""Oh, no, ma'am." The parlor-maid smiled superciliously. "She said shehad news for you." From her toneone could deduce an over-confidingexplanation made by a shabby visitor while using the door-mat almost toozealously.Kitty pondered, then said:"I'll come down." As the girl went, Kitty took up the amber hair-pinsfromher lap and began swathing her hair about her head. "Last year'sfashion," she commented; "but I fancy it'll do for a person with thatsort of address." She stood up, and threw her little silkdressing-jacket over therocking-horse. "I'm seeing her because she mayneed something, and I specially want to be kind to people while Chris isaway. One wants to deserve well of heaven." For a minute she was aloofin radiance, but as welinked arms and went out into the corridor shebecame more mortal, with a pout. "The people that come breaking intoone's nice, quiet day!" she moaned reproachfully, and as we came to thehead of the broad stair-caseshe leaned over the white balustrade topeer down on the hall, and squeezed my arm. "Look!" she whispered.Just beneath us, in one of Kitty's prettiest chintz arm-chairs, sat amiddle-aged woman. She wore a yellowishraincoat and a black hat withplumes. The sticky straw hat had only lately been renovated by somethingout of a little bottle bought at the chemist's. She had rolled her blackthread gloves into a ball on her lap, so thatshe could turn her grayalpaca skirt well above her muddy boots and adjust its brush-braid witha seamed red hand that looked even more worn when she presently raisedit to touch the glistening flowers of the pinkazalea that stood on atable beside her. Kitty shivered, then muttered:"Let's get this over," and ran down the stairs. On the last step shepaused and said with conscientious sweetness, "Mrs. Grey!""Yes," answered thevisitor. She lifted to Kitty a sallow and relaxedface the expression of which gave me a sharp, pitying pang ofprepossession in her favor: it was beautiful that so plain a womanshould so ardently rejoice in another'sloveliness. "Are you Mrs.Baldry?" she asked, almost as if she were glad about it, and stood up.The bones of her bad stays clicked as she moved. Well, she was not sobad. Her body was long and round and shapely, andwith a noblesquareness of the shoulders; her fair hair curled diffidently about agood brow; her gray eyes, though they were remote, as if anything worthlooking at in her life had kept a long way off, were full oftenderness;and though she was slender, there was something about her of thewholesome, endearing heaviness of the ox or the trusted big dog. Yet shewas bad enough. She was repulsively furred with neglect andpoverty, aseven a good glove that has dropped down behind a bed in a hotel and haslain undisturbed for a day or two is repulsive when the chambermaidretrieves it from the dust and fluff.She flung at us as we satdown:"My general maid is sister to your second housemaid."It left us at a loss."You've come about a reference?" asked Kitty."Oh, no. I've had Gladys two years now, and I've always found her a verygood girl. I want noreference." With her finger-nail she followed theburst seam of the dark pigskin purse that slid about on her shiny alpacalap. "But girls talk, you know. You mustn't blame them." She seemed tobe caught in a thicket ofembarrassment, and sat staring up at theazalea.With the hardness of a woman who sees before her the curse of women'slives, a domestic row, Kitty said that she took no interest in servants'gossip."Oh, it isn't--" hereyes brimmed as though we had beenunkind--"servants' gossip that I wanted to talk about. I only mentionedGladys"--she continued to trace the burst seam of her purse--"becausethat's how I heard you didn'tknow.""What don't I know?"Her head drooped a little."About Mr. Baldry. Forgive me, I don't know his rank.""Captain Baldry," supplied Kitty, wonderingly. "What is it that I don'tknow?"She looked far away from us, tothe open door and its view of dark pinesand pale March sunshine, and appeared to swallow something."Why, that he's hurt," she gently said."Wounded, you mean?" asked Kitty.Her rusty plumes oscillated as she movedher mild face about with an airof perplexity."Yes," she said, "he's wounded."Kitty's bright eyes met mine, and we obeyed that mysterious humanimpulse to smile triumphantly at the spectacle of afellow-creatureoccupied in baseness. For this news was not true. It could not possiblybe true. The War Office would have wired to us immediately if Chris hadbeen wounded. This was such a fraud as one sees recordedin the papersthat meticulously record squalor in paragraphs headed, "Heartless Fraudon Soldier's Wife." Presently she would say that she had gone to someexpense to come here with her news and that she was poor,and at thefirst generous look on our faces there would come some tale of troublethat would disgust the imagination by pictures of yellow-wood furniturethat a landlord oddly desired to seize and a pallid child withbandagesround its throat. I cast down my eyes and shivered at the horror. Yetthere was something about the physical quality of the woman, unlovelythough she was, which preserved the occasion from utter baseness.I feltsure that had it not been for the tyrannous emptiness of that evil,shiny pigskin purse that jerked about on her trembling knees the poordriven creature would have chosen ways of candor and gentleness. Itwas,strangely enough, only when I looked at Kitty and marked how herbrightly colored prettiness arched over this plain criminal as thoughshe were a splendid bird of prey and this her sluggish insect food thatI felt themoment degrading.Kitty was, I felt, being a little too clever over it."How is he wounded?" she asked.The caller traced a pattern on the carpet with her blunt toe."I don't know how to put it; he's not exactly wounded. Ashell burst--""Concussion?" suggested Kitty.She answered with an odd glibness and humility, as though tendering us aterm she had long brooded over without arriving at comprehension, andhoping that our superiorintelligences would make something of it:"Shell-shock." Our faces did not illumine, so she dragged on lamely,"Anyway, he's not well." Again she played with her purse. Her face wasvisibly damp."Not well? Is hedangerously ill?""Oh, no." She was too kind to harrow us. "Not dangerously ill."Kitty brutally permitted a silence to fall. Our caller could not bearit, and broke it in a voice that nervousness had turned to a funny,diffidentcroak."He's in the Queen Mary Hospital at Boulogne." We did not speak, and shebegan to flush and wriggle on her seat, and stooped forward to fumbleunder the legs of her chair for her umbrella. The sight of itsgreenseams and unveracious tortoiseshell handle disgusted Kitty into speech."How do you know all this?"Our visitor met her eyes. This was evidently a moment for which she hadsteeled herself, and she rose to it with acatch of her breath. "A manwho used to be a clerk along with my husband is in Mr. Baldry'sregiment." Her voice croaked even more piteously, and her eyes begged:"Leave it at that! Leave it at that! If you onlyknew--""And what regiment is that?" pursued Kitty.The poor sallow face shone with sweat."I never thought to ask," she said."Well, your friend's name--"Mrs. Grey moved on her seat so suddenly and violently that thepigskinpurse fell from her lap and lay at my feet. I supposed that she cast itfrom her purposely because its emptiness had brought her to thishumiliation, and that the scene would close presently in a few quiettears.Ihoped that Kitty would let her go without scarring her too much withwords and would not mind if I gave her a little money. There was nodoubt in my mind but that this queer, ugly episode in which this womanbuttedlike a clumsy animal at a gate she was not intelligent enough toopen would dissolve and be replaced by some more pleasing composition inwhich we would take our proper parts; in which, that is, she would turnfromour rightness ashamed. Yet she cried:"But Chris is ill!"It took only a second for the compact insolence of the moment topenetrate, the amazing impertinence of the use of his name, theaccusation of callousness shebrought against us whose passion for Chriswas our point of honor, because we would not shriek at her false news,the impudently bright, indignant gaze she flung at us, the lift of hervoice that pretended she could notunderstand our coolness andirrelevance. I pushed the purse away from me with my toe, and hated heras the rich hate the poor as insect things that will struggle out of thecrannies which are their decent home andintroduce ugliness to the lightof day. And Kitty said in a voice shaken with pitilessness:"You are impertinent. I know exactly what you are doing. You have readin the 'Harrow Observer' or somewhere that my husband is


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Germania and Agricola, by Caius Cornelius TacitusThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts of the world at no cost and with almost norestrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States,you'll haveto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.Title: Germania and AgricolaAuthor: Caius Cornelius TacitusPosting Date: February 24, 2015 [EBook #9090]Release Date:October, 2005First Posted: September 4, 2003Language: Latin*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GERMANIA AND AGRICOLA ***Produced by David Starner, Tapio Riikonen and DistributedProofreadersThe GERMANIA and AGRICOLAOfCaius Cornelius TacitusWith Notes for CollegesBy W. S. TylerProfessor of the Greek and Latin Languages in Amherst CollegePREFACE.This edition of the Germania andAgricola of Tacitus is designed to meetthe following wants, which, it is believed, have been generally felt byteachers and pupils in American Colleges.1. A Latin text, approved and established by the essentialconcurrence ofall the more recent editors. The editions of Tacitus now in use in thiscountry abound in readings purely conjectural, adopted without due regardto the peculiarities of the author, and in direct contraventionof thecritical canon, that, other things being equal, the more difficultreading is the more likely to be genuine. The recent German editionslabor to exhibit and explain, so far as possible, the reading of the bestMSS.2. Amore copious illustration of the grammatical constructions, also ofthe rhetorical and poetical usages peculiar to Tacitus, withouttranslating, however, to such an extent as to supersede the properexertions of the student.Few books require so much illustration of thiskind, as the Germania and Agricola of Tacitus; few have received more inGermany, yet few so little here. In a writer so concise and abrupt asTacitus, it has been deemednecessary to pay particular regard to theconnexion of thought, and to the particles, as the hinges of thatconnexion.3. A comparison of the writer and his cotemporaries with authors of theAugustan age, so as to markconcisely the changes which had been alreadywrought in the language and taste of the Roman people. It is chiefly witha view to aid such a comparison, that it has been thought advisable toprefix a Life of Tacitus, whichis barren indeed of personal incidents,but which it is hoped may serve to exhibit the author in his relation tothe history, and especially to the literature, of his age.4. The department in which less remained to be donethan any other, forthe elucidation of Tacitus, was that of Geography, History, andArchaeology. The copious notes of Gordon and Murphy left little to bedesired in this line; and these notes are not only accessible toAmericanscholars in their original forms, but have been incorporated, more orless, into all the college editions. If any peculiar merit attaches tothis edition, in this department, it will be found in the frequentreferences tosuch classic authors as furnish collateral information, andin the illustration of the private life of the Romans, by the help ofsuch recent works as Becker's Gallus. The editor has also been able toavail himself of SharonTurner's History of the Anglo Saxons, which shedsnot a little light on the manners of the Germans.5. Many of the ablest commentaries on the Germania and Agricola haveappeared within a comparatively recent period,some of them remarkableexamples of critical acumen and exegetical tact, and others, models ofschool and college editions. It has been the endeavor of the editor tobring down the literature pertaining to Tacitus to thepresent time, andto embody in small compass the most valuable results of the labors ofsuch recent German editors as Grimm, GÃ¼nther, Gruber, Kiessling, Dronke,Roth, Ruperti, and Walther.The text is, in the main,that of Walther, though the other editors justnamed have been consulted; and in such minor differences as exist betweenthem, I have not hesitated to adopt the reading which seemed best toaccord with the usage andgenius of Tacitus, especially when sanctionedby a decided preponderance of critical suffrage. Other readings have beenreferred to in the Notes, so far as they are of any considerableimportance, or supported byrespectable authority. Partly forconvenience, but chiefly as a matter of taste, I have ventured to followthe German editions in dispensing entirely with diacritical marks, and insome peculiarities of less importance, whichif not viewed with favor, itis hoped, will not be judged with severity. The punctuation is the resultof a diligent comparison of the best editions, together with a carefulstudy of the connexion of language and ofthought.The German editions above mentioned, together with several French,English, and American works, have not only been constantly before me, buthave been used with great freedom, and credit awarded tothemaccordingly. Some may think their names should have appeared lessfrequently; others that they should have received credit to a stillgreater extent. Suffice it to say, I have never intended to quote thelanguage, orborrow the thoughts of an author, without giving his name;and in matters of fact or opinion, I have cited authorities not only whenI have been indebted to them for the suggestion, but whenever, in a caseof coincidenceof views, I thought the authorities would be of anyinterest to the student.I have not considered it needful, with German scrupulosity, todistinguish between my own references and those of others. It may safelybe takenfor granted, that the major, perhaps the better, part of themhave been derived from foreign sources. But no references have beenadmitted on trust. They have been carefully verified, and it is hopedthat numerous asthey are, they will be found pertinent and useful,whether illustrative of things, or of mere verbal usage. Some, who usethe book, will doubtless find occasion to follow them out either in wholeor in part; and those whodo not, will gain a general impression as tothe sources from which collateral information may be obtained, that willbe of no small value.The frequent references to the Notes of Professor Kingsley, will show theestimationin which I hold them. Perhaps I have used them too freely. Myonly apology is, that so far as they go, they are just what is wanted;and if I had avoided using them to a considerable extent, I must havesubstitutedsomething less perfect of my own. Had they been more copious,and extended more to verbal and grammatical illustrations, these Notesnever would have appeared.The editor is convinced, from his experience as ateacher, that thestudent of Tacitus will not master the difficulties, or appreciate themerits, of so peculiar an author, unless his peculiarities are distinctlypointed out and explained. Indeed, the student, in reading anyclassicauthor, needs, not to be carried along on the broad shoulders of anindiscriminate translator, but to be guided at every step in learning hislessons, by a judicious annotator, who will remove his difficulties, andaidhis progress; who will point out to him what is worthy of attention,and guard him against the errors to which he is constantly exposed; forfirst impressions are lively and permanent, and the errors of the study,eventhough corrected in the recitation, not unfrequently leave animpression on the mind which is never effaced.Besides the aid derived from books, to which the merit of this edition,if it have any merit, will be chiefly owing,the editor takes thisopportunity to acknowledge his many obligations to those professors andother literary gentlemen, who have extended to him assistance andencouragement. To Prof. H. B. Hackett, of NewtonTheological Seminary,especially, he is indebted for favors, which, numerous and invaluable inthemselves, as the results of a singularly zealous and successfuldevotion to classical learning, are doubly grateful as thetokens of apersonal friendship, which began when we were members of the same classin college. The work was commenced at his suggestion, and has beencarried forward with his constant advice and co-operation. Hisampleprivate library, and, through his influence, the library of the Seminary,have been placed at my disposal; and the notes passed under his eye andwere improved in not a few particulars, at his suggestion, though heisin no way responsible for their remaining imperfections. I have alsoreceived counsel and encouragement in all my labors from my esteemedcolleague, Prof. N. W. Fiske, whose instructions in the samedepartmentwhich has since been committed to my charge, first taught me to love theGreek and Latin classics. I have only to regret that his ill health andabsence from the country have prevented me from deriving stillgreateradvantages from his learning and taste. An unforeseen event has, in likemanner, deprived me of the expected cooperation of Prof. Lyman Coleman,now of Nassau Hall College in N. J., in concert with whom thiswork wasplanned, and was to have been executed, and on whose ripe scholarship,and familiarity with the German language and literature, I chiefly reliedfor its successful accomplishment.I should not do justice to myfeelings, were I to omit the expression ofmy obligations to the printer and publishers for the unwearied patiencewith which they have labored to perfect the work, under all thedisadvantages attending thesuperintendance of the press, at such adistance. If there should still be found in it inaccuracies andblemishes, it will not be because they have spared any pains to make it acorrect and beautiful book.It is with unfeigneddiffidence that I submit to the public this firstattempt at literary labor. I am fully sensible of its many imperfections,at the same time I am conscious of an ability to make it better at somefuture day, should it meet thefavorable regard of the classical teachersof our land, to whom it is dedicated as an humble contribution to thatcause in which they are now laboring, with such unprecedented zeal.Should it contribute in any measure toa better understanding, or ahigher appreciation by our youthful countrymen of a classic author, fromwhom, beyond almost any other, I have drawn instruction and delight, Ishall not have labored in vain._AmherstCollege, June 1, 1847_.PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITIONThe text of this edition has been carefully revised and compared withthose of DÃ¶derlein, Halle, 1847, Orelli, Zurich, 1848, and Ritter, Bonnand Cambridge,1848. The notes also have been re-examined and, to aconsiderable extent, re-written; partly to correspond with the progressof my own mind, partly in accordance with suggestions derived from theabove namededitions, and from friendly criticisms either by letter or inthe public journals. Among the journals, I am particularly indebted tothe Bibliotheca Sacra and the New-Englander; and for communications byletter, I am underespecial obligations to Professors Crosby and Sanbornof Dartmouth College, Robbins of Middlebury, and Lincoln of BrownUniversity.In revising the geography of the Germania, I have consulted, withouthowever enteringmuch into detail, Ukert's invaluable treatise on theGeography of the Greeks and Romans, whose volume on Germany contains atranslation and running commentary on almost the entire work of Tacitus.Particularattention has been paid to the ethnology of the tribes andnations, in reference to whose origin and early history Tacitus is amongthe best authorities. In this department the works of Prichard and Lathamhave been mychief reliance. Grimm and Zeuss, though often referred to, Iregret to say I have been able to consult only at second hand.In sending out this revised edition of these most delightful treatises ofan author, in the study ofwhose works I never tire, I cannot but expressthe hope, that it has been not a little improved by these alterations andadditions, while it will be found to have lost none of the essentialfeatures by which the first editionwas commended to so good a measure ofpublic favor.W. S. Tyler._Amherst, May_, 1852LIFE OF TACITUS.It is the office of genius and learning, as of light, to illustrateother things, and not itself. The writers, who, of allothers perhaps,have told us most of the world, just as it has been and is, have told usleast of themselves. Their character we may infer, with more or lessexactness, from their works, but their history is unwritten andmust forever remain so. Homer, though, perhaps, the only one who has been arguedout of existence, is by no means the only one whose age and birthplacehave been disputed. The native place of Tacitus is merematter ofconjecture. His parentage is not certainly known. The time of his birthand the year of his death are ascertained only by approximation, and veryfew incidents are recorded in the history of his life; still we knowtheperiod in which he lived, the influences under which his character wasdeveloped and matured, and the circumstances under which he wrote hisimmortal works. In short, we know his times, though we canscarcelygather up enough to denominate his life; and the times in which an authorlived, are often an important, not to say, essential means of elucidatinghis writings.CAIUS CORNELIUS TACITUS was born in the earlypart of the reign of Nero,and near the middle of the first century in the Christian Era. Theprobability is, that he was the son of Cornelius Tacitus, a man ofequestrian rank, and procurator of Belgic Gaul under Nero; thathe wasborn at Interamna in Umbria, and that he received a part of his educationat Massilia (the modern Marseilles), which was then the Athens of theWest, a Grecian colony, and a seat of truly Grecian cultureandrefinement. It is not improbable that he enjoyed also the instructions ofQuintilian, who for twenty years taught at Rome that pure and manlyeloquence, of which his Institutes furnish at once such perfect rules,andso fine an example. If we admit the Dialogue de Claris Oratoribus tobe the work of Tacitus, his beau-idÃ©al of the education proper for anorator was no less comprehensive, no less elevated, no less liberal, thanthat ofCicero himself; and if his theory of education was, likeCicero's, only a transcript of his own education, he must have beendisciplined early in all the arts and sciences--in all the departmentsof knowledge which were thencultivated at Rome; a conclusion in which weare confirmed also by the accurate and minute acquaintance which heshows, in his other works, with all the affairs, whether civil ormilitary, public or private, literary orreligious, both of Greece andRome.The boyhood and youth of Tacitus did, indeed, fall on evil times.Monsters in vice and crime had filled the throne, till their morals andmanners had infected those of all the people. Thestate was distracted,and apparently on the eve of dissolution. The public taste, like thegeneral conscience, was perverted. The fountains of education werepoisoned. Degenerate Grecian masters were inspiring theirRoman pupilswith a relish for a false science, a frivolous literature, a vitiatedeloquence, an Epicurean creed, and a voluptuous life.But with sufficient discernment to see the follies and vices of his age,and with sufficientvirtue to detest them, Tacitus must have found hislove of wisdom and goodness, of liberty and law, strengthened by thevery disorders and faults of the times. If the patriot ever loves awell-regulated freedom, it will bein and after the reign of a tyrant,preceded or followed by what is still worse, anarchy. If the pure and thegood ever reverence purity and goodness, it will be amid the generalprevalence of vice and crime. If the sageever pants after wisdom, it iswhen the fountains of knowledge have become corrupted. The reigns of Neroand his immediate successors were probably the very school, of allothers, to which we are most indebted for thecomprehensive wisdom, theelevated sentiments, and the glowing eloquence of the biographer ofAgricola, and the historian of the Roman Empire. His youth saw, and felt,and deplored the disastrous effects of Nero'sinhuman despotism, and ofthe anarchy attending the civil wars of Galba, Otho, and Vitellius. Hismanhood saw, and felt, and exulted in the contrast furnished by thereigns of Vespasian and Titus, though the sun of thelatter too soon wentdown, in that long night of gloom, and blood, and terror, the tyranny ofDomitian. And when, in the reigns of Nerva and Trajan, he enjoyed therare felicity of thinking what he pleased, and speakingwhat he thought,he was just fitted in the maturity of his faculties, and the extent ofhis observation and reflections, "to enroll slowly, year after year, thatdreadful reality of crimes and sufferings, which even dramatichorror, inall its license of wild imagination, can scarcely reach, the longunvarying catalogue of tyrants and executioners, and victims that returnthanks to the gods and die, and accusers rich with their blood, andmoremighty as more widely hated, amid the multitudes of prostrate slaves,still looking whether there may not yet have escaped some lingeringvirtue which it may be a merit to destroy, and having scarcely leisuretofeel even the agonies of remorse in the continued sense of theprecariousness of their own gloomy existence." [Brown's Philosophy of theMind.]Tacitus was educated for the bar, and continued to pleadcauses,occasionally at least, and with not a little success, even after he hadentered upon the great business of his life, as a writer of history. Wefind references to his first, and perhaps his last appearance, asanadvocate, in the Letters of Pliny, which are highly complimentary. Thefirst was, when Pliny was nineteen, and Tacitus a little older (how muchwe are not informed), when Tacitus distinguished himself, so as toawakenthe emulation and the envy, though not in a bad sense, of Pliny. The lastwas some twenty years later, when Tacitus and Pliny, the tried friends ofa whole life, the brightest ornaments of literature and of theforum,were associated by the choice of the Senate, and pleaded together atthe bar of the Senate, and in the presence of the Emperor Trajan, forthe execution of justice upon Marius Priscus, who was accusedofmaladministration in the proconsulship of Africa. Pliny says, thatTacitus spoke with singular gravity and eloquence, and the Senate passeda unanimous vote of approbation and thanks to both the orators, for theabilityand success with which they had managed the prosecution (Plin.Epis. ii. 11)We have also the comments of Pliny on a panegyrical oration, whichTacitus pronounced, when consul, upon his predecessor in theconsularoffice, Verginius Rufus, perhaps the most remarkable man of his age,distinguished alike as a hero, a statesman, and a scholar, and yet somodest or so wise that he repeatedly refused the offer of theimperialpurple. "Fortune," says Pliny, "always faithful to Verginius, reservedfor her last favor, such an orator to pronounce a eulogium on suchvirtues. It was enough to crown the glory of a well spent life" (Plin.Epis. ii.1).The speeches in the historical works of Tacitus, though rather conciseand abstract for popular orations, are full of force and fire. Some ofthem are truly Demosthenic in their impassioned and fiery logic. Thespeech ofGalgacus before the Briton army, when driven into the extremityof Caledonia by the Romans under Agricola, can hardly be surpassed forpatriotic sentiments, vigorous reasoning, and burning invective. Theaddress ofGermanicus to his mutinous soldiers (in the Annals) is notless remarkable for tender pathos. The sage and yet soldierlike addressof the aged Galba to his adopted son Piso, the calm and manly speech ofPiso to the bodyguard, the artful harangue of the demagogue Otho to histroops, the no less crafty address of Mucianus to Vespasian, the headlongrapidity of Antonius' argument for immediate action, the plausible pleaof MarcellusEprius against the honest attack of Helvidius Priscus, andthe burning rebukes of the intrepid Vocula to his cowardly andtreacherous followers--all these, in the Histories, show no ordinarydegree of rhetorical skill andversatility. Indeed, the entire body ofhis works is animated with the spirit of the orator, as it is tinged alsowith the coloring of the poet. For this reason, they are doubtlessdeficient in the noble simplicity of the earlierclassical histories; butfor the same reason they may be a richer treasure for the professionalmen at least of modern times.Of his marriage with the daughter of Agricola, and its influence on hischaracter and prospects,as also of his passing in regular gradationthrough the series of public honors at Rome, beginning with thequaestorship under Vespasian, and ending with the consulship under Nerva,Tacitus informs us himself (A. 9, His.i. 1), barely alluding to them,however, in the general, and leaving all the details to mere conjecture.We learn to our surprise, that he not only escaped the jealousy of thetyrant Domitian, but was even promoted by him


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Revised Screenplay 17th January, 1983.ALEXANDER SALKINDpresentsSUPERGIRLbyDavid OdellCopyright1983CANTHARUS PRODUCTIONS N.V.All Rights ReservedEXT. SPACE THE CAMERA PULLS BACK. . . INT. ARGO CITYAND REVEALS THE inside of a domed city honeycombed withfantastic arches. The city is inhabited by young beautiful people in luxurious but simple costumes.THE CAMERA ROAMS through the City, observing some people seated at a kind of cafe sipping drinks and relaxing; otherpeople are in some kind of exercise class doing beautiful graceful movement; and finally a class of five year old children listen intently to a teacher who is demonstrating a molecular model. TEACHER And now,who can give me the electron wave functions for Kryptonian covalent bonding?The five year olds eagerly raise their hands. The teacher points to one.CHILD The cube root of the wavelength over the naturallog of the integral of the speed of light squared.The teacher smiles.TEACHER Well, maybe that was a bit too easy...THE CAMERA ROAMS ON through the city, following the sound of a strange, ethereallybeautiful singing. The CAMERA discovers the source of the sound: an ARTIST sculpting a beautiful crystalline object with a MATTERWAND. The wand makes the singing noise as it creates matter out of energy. The Artist,whose name is ZALTAR, sometimes whistles along in counterpoint. .A small girl is watching him with fascination. Her name is Kara, and she is seven.Behind her, the dome, which encloses the City, marks the edge of thelimbo outside.KARAWhat are you making: ZALTARIt's going to be a tree, I think.KARA What's a tree? ZALTARIt's something they have on Earth. You know, where your cousinwent. KARA Where is Earth? ZALTARDidn't you study six-dimensional geometry in school? KARAYes, I know the equations---I just can't see it in my head.Zaltar laughs. ZALTAREven I have trouble with that sometimes. Earth is in outer space. And we're in inner space.  KARAI don't understand. ZALTARWait till you're older. Here -- watch this. Zaltar takes a smallOMEGAHEDRON out of his pocket and holds it in his hand. ZALTAR. This is one of the four Power Sources of the City. I borrowed it from the Guardians. Look what I can do with it. Zaltar touches hisMATTER.WAND to the OMEGAHEDRON and the wand instantly becomes charged with flickering light. He touches his wand to the tree sculpture---and the sculpture comes alive with dancing lights and shadows. Karaclaps her hands with delight at the spectacle. Zaltar steps back and admires his handiwork. He carefully puts down theOMEGAHEDRON at his feet, takes a small flask from his belt, and drinks. ZALTAR You see,a tree is a living thing. KARA Can you create life? ZALTAR No, no, just the illusion of life. A kind of half-life, maybe. A pale shadow of the real thing. But it is lovely, the way the light playsover the surface. . . A woman's voice can be heard calling in the distance.WOMAN'S VOICE Kara. Kara.Kara calls out in reply. KARA I'm here, mother.Kara's mother ALURA appears through the laceyarchitecture of the city.ALURA Kara, you shouldn't be so near the Edge without a grown-up. KARAI'm sorry, Mother. ZALTARI was keeping an eye on her.Alura puts her arm around herdaughter affectionately, showing she's not really angry. Together they watch Zaltar's latest sculpture, flickering with the play of inner light and shadow.ALURA Thank you, Zaltar, but she has to obey therules.Zaltar takes another swig from his flask. and lowers his voice confidentially.ZALTAR You and your husband have been kind to me, Alura. I have something to tell you: I'm going away. Soon. ALURABut where?Zaltar bends down to Kara and hands her his matterwand.ZALTAR Put your fingers there, Kara. And press hard.She does, and the wand makes a horrible squawk. Kara laughs withdelight.ZALTAR Good. Now, go make something pretty.Kara scampers away, hardly able to believe her good fortune, and starts to make all kinds of surprising sounds with the wand on the plaza nearby. Zaltarspeaks to Alura in a low, confidential voice.ZALTARI've discovered a new way into the Phantom Zone. ALURABut the phantom Zone is for criminals. ZALTARIt's big. And empty. I'm tired oflimiting myself to  Argo City. I want to do something new. I'm starting to repeat myself here with this airy, glittery stuff....Zaltar waves a hand deprecatingly at the city around him.ALURA But Zaltar---youfounded the city! It's yours. We were all just refugees from Krypton when you gathered us together and brought us here, to the inner dimension. You can't abandon us now. You have a responsibility to us!In thebackground, Kara has been modeling a spiky insect-like CREATURE. Now she suddenly finds the OMEGAHEDRON on the ground beside her. She doesn't stop to wonder how it got there from beside Zaltar's feet. Shesimply picks up the OMEGAHEDRON and touches it to the spiky creature. The creature suddenly flicks its wings and COMES TO LIFE, unnoticed by the adults. Kara drops the wand and laughs out loud with delight as themagical creature takes off from the ground and starts flying in circles around her head, glittering as if it were made of diamonds.ZALTARI'm an artist, Alura. My work comes first. Other people comesecond. ALURAHow can you create beauty...with a selfish heart?The spiky insect-creature flies closer and closer around the little girl's head, buzzing angrily. Her look of delight turns to fear. She tries to shoothe creature away. It flies off toward the thin membrane that encloses the city.The spiky creature flies into the membrane and tears a ragged hole in it. With a giant WHOOSH all the air in the city starts to rush out thehole. Kara is swept along toward the hole by the wind. She cries out and stretches pleading hands toward her mother. THE OMEGAHEDRON is swept toward the hole as well. Kara grabs onto the ragged edge of themembrane.ZALTAR Kara---the Power Source!Kara reaches for it, but it is too far from her, and the OMEGAHEDRON is sucked out into infinity by the wind. Zaltar picks up the matterwand from where Karadropped it and touches her with the wand. She is instantly held fast. Zaltar pulls her back inside. He gives her to her mother Alura. Then Zaltar touches his wand to the membrane and seals the hole with masterfulchords like a brass choir. The wind dies down and all is silent, except for the quiet sobbing of Kara in her mother's arms. Zaltar kneels down beside her and strokes her golden hair  tenderly.KARA I'm sorry... Ididn't know. ZALTAR It was my fault. You aren't old enough to use the wand. I shouldn't have given it to you. ALURABut the Power Source, Zaltar. ZALTARIt couldn't be helped. The city willhave to make do with three. ALURABut what will happen? ZALTAR The Guardians will be angry. They may even send me to the Phantom Zone. You see, I didn't really have permission to borrow it. Imust go explain to them...Zaltar hurries off nervously. THE CAMERA HOLDS ON KARA'S FACE as she senses this may be her last sight of Zaltar.DISSOLVE TO:EXT. A SPRINGTIME MEADOW - U.S.A. - DAY.UNDER TITLESA beautiful blonde in jeans and a frilly blouse is walking across a field of wildflowers. Butterflies flitter and dart from flower to flower. The blonde's name is SELENA. She is our ideal image of the girlnext door, who grew up into a dynamite lady.Her current boyfriend follows along behind her, lugging a big wicker hamper from their pickup truck parked at the edge of the road. Selena finds a grassy spot under an oldoak. and spreads out a red and white checked gingham cloth..SELENA Over here George. It's the perfect spot. Nice view.George sets down the wicker basket and Selena starts to unpack a scrumptious picnicof home cooked food. She unpacks fried chicken, hard-boiled eggs, potato salad, cold beer and a big rich creamy-frosted devils food cake. GEORGE You sure are a good cook, Selena. Man, that looks too prettyto eat. SELENABetter eat it quick. It won't look too pretty when it's all covered with ants.She hands him a chicken drumstick and a hard-boiled egg. GEORGE Selena, I've been thinking. It's time Isettled down---and I don't know a nicer lady to settledown with than you.SELENA Why George, are you proposing? GEORGEMarry me, Selena. The hardware store doesn't bring in much now,but...SELENA George---I thought you'd never ask.A shrill whistling sound from above makes them look up. With a loud plop and a spatter of icing the OMEGAHEDRON falls into the middle of the chocolatecake.GEORGE What the heck is that?They look up in the boughs of the tree overhead, and then down at the chocolate cake splashed all over the checked cloth.SELENAA squirrel Frisbee?Selenareaches out and picks up the OMEGAHEDRON. It comes away from the cake without a trace of the chocolate icing sticking to its surface, as if made of some substance, which repels other kinds of matter.Selena holdsthe shining Omegahedron in her hand and examines it, turning it around and around as if hypnotized. Her face takes on a new expression. Almost as if the simple, wholesome innocence of her nature had been blastedaway by some profound new knowledge of the universe.SELENA That's funny. I'd swear I know just what this is, but I've never seen it before.She stands up and walks across the checkered cloth, in a beelinefor the pickup truck.GEORGE Hey, where you going? SELENA      (calling over her shoulder) I've got things to do. GEORGE What about my proposal? SELENA          (dismissively)Call me next week. Maybe we can have lunch.She gets in the pickup and. drives away.GEORGE Hey! My truck!DISSOLVE TO: KARA' S FACEShe is ten years older now, a young lady. Almostready to assume the long flowing gown of an adult, but still in the tunic worn by those under eighteen.ALURA       (voice over) But Kara, you are too young to go.ANOTHER ANGLE. ARGO CITY.DIMMEDThey are in the assembly amphitheater of the city, where the kindergarten nuclear physics class was seen. Kara is in the centre of the ring, with adults seated in scattered rows around her. Her parentsZor-El and Alura are standing in front of her.KARA I am almost an adult. This is what I want.ZOR-EL But Kara, no one has ever gone from here to Earth. The journey is dangerous. KARAItwas my fault we lost the Power Source. ZOR-ELYears ago. And it was Zaltar who stole it. KARAI allowed it to escape the City. ALURAEver since we told you how your cousin Superman wassent there as an infant, all you have wanted to do was visit this place. KARAYes, I do want to go. But someone must go. Our scanning shows the Power Source has finally reached the Earth. It could destroyeverything unless someone brings it back. ZOR-EL Superman will return it. KARAWhy haven't you been able to contact him? He should have returned from the neutron galaxy ages ago. He may be


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    <TITLE>"LITTLE NICKY" --by Tim Herlihy, Adam Sandler & Steven Brill</TITLE>
 FADE IN: EXT. SUBURBIA - NIGHT A beautiful late summer night.  Crickets chirping, sprinklers sprinkling. We PAN across oneparticular lawn, up one particular tree, where we see THE PEEPER (Jon Lovitz) sitting on a limb.  He has a bottle of wine, some sandwiches, a Walkman.  Suddenly the lights turn on. PEEPER (whispering)Showtime! We see a young mother walk into the room outside the Peeper's window.  She is wearing business attire. PEEPER (CONT'D) Rough day at the office Mrs. Dunleavy? (takes bite of sandwich) Wellyou'll feel better once you slip off those work clothes and get into some sweats. The mother sits on the bed and pulls off her shoes, rubbing her feet. PEEPER (CONT'D) Oh my G-D, yes!  I wish you would letme rub those feet.  Of course I wouldn't use my hands.  Heh heh heh heh... He sips some wine. The mother starts to unbutton her blouse.  She takes it off, revealing a nice bra. PEEPER (CONT'D) Looks likeVictoria just told me her secret. The peeper frantically writes in a dirty notebook.  Mouthing the words as he goes. PEEPER (CONT'D) Thursday the ninth, eight-thirty p.m., first brassiere sighting... (stopswriting) I will pleasure myself to this image for months.  MONTHS I TELL YOU! The mother starts to unbutton her pants.  Her young son walks in wearing a scouts uniform. PEEPER (CONT'D) Young ScottieDunleavy.  What unfortunate timing.  You mother was just getting comfy. The son talks to his mother excitedly. PEEPER (CONT'D) Yes, yes, I'm sure you tied many great knots today or whatever.  Now getout. The son, not going anywhere, sits in a chair. PEEPER (CONT'D) Now what.  This simply won't do. The peeper takes out a cell phone and dials.  The son answers. SCOTTIE Hello? PEEPERHello, Scottie.  Why don't you go downstairs like a good boy and let your mother freshen up. SCOTTIE Who is this? PEEPER Just a little birdie.  A birdie who wants to see if your mother's pantiesmatch her bra. MOTHER Oh my G-D Scottie.  Is there a man up our tree? The peeper gets nervous. PEEPER Tell her no.  Tell her it's just a big bird. The peeper starts flapping his arms and makingbird noises. We SEE Scottie with his sling shot.  The mother nods yes.  He shoots it.  It hits the peeper square in the head.  He falls to the ground with a thud. PEEPER (CONT'D) Mrs. Dunleavy, please comehelp me.  And wear your bikini. The peeper looks up.  He sees Scottie pushing a television out the window.  It lands on top of the peeper.  He's dead.    HARD CUT: INT. HOLE - DAY The peeper iszooming down a hole, walls of dirt racing by on all sides. The peeper is falling down, down, down.  The whole way screaming like a five-year old girl. PEEPER'S POV We see the tunnel turn into more of a slidenow and the peeper races towards the opening which is lit by fire.  He SCREAMS. EXT. FIRE GATES OF HELL We see the GATE/WALL OF FLAMES.  We hear screaming.  Wham! We see the peepercome flying through the flames and land in a heap in a shallow pit of coals. Dazed, he stands and we see other people shooting through the fire wall at different levels.  (NOTE: All the arrivals clothes are now burned &shredded). GATEKEEPER (O.S.) Welcome! The peeper looks left to see the GATEKEEPER standing at his station greeting the new SOULS with mock cheer. PEEPER Am I in hell? GATEKEEPERWhat do you think? A GIANT BIRD appears and bites the peeper's crotch area.  We leave the peeper in the pit and tilt up to... MATTE PAINTING HELL MUSIC UP: "RUNNING WITH THE DEVIL" BY VANHALEN The VAST and insane kingdom of Hell.  A road leads toward it like the yellow brick road only with fire and coals.  We see the black castle in the distance.  The camera zooms into the castle, to one particularwindow. INT. NICKY'S ROOM - DAY Looks like an American teenager's room - models, a dresser, heavy metal posters (tons of OZZY stuff) everywhere (but no bed - Devils don't sleep).  Nicky is air guitaring tothe song.  Over at the stereo, we see the cassette playing titled "NICKY'S MONSTER METAL MIX." The head demon, JIMMY THE DEMON, opens the door, scaring NICKY who falls backward into the table,breaking it. NICKY (embarrassed) Hey... JIMMY THE DEMON Your father wants to see you and your brothers in the throne room. NICKY Okay, but Jimmy, when the house is rockin', don'tforget the knockin'! INT. BLACK PALACE THRONE ROOM - DAY ADRIAN and CASSIUS are playing darts.  They're aiming for people's faces that are coming through the wall. CASSIUS I knew it.  He'sfinally retiring. ADRIAN I've been waiting on this day for ten thousand years. He throws a dart that hits one of the heads in the forehead. HUMAN DARTBOARD Aaaah! CASSIUS If the oldman picks me to take over Hell, I'll keep the torture going twenty four seven.  No breaks. ADRIAN Well Dad says it's the breaks that make the torture.  You have to let people feel a sense of relief. Cassiuswhips a dart which hits one of the HUMAN DARTBOARDS in the eye. HUMAN DARTBOARD Aaaaaaaaaaaah! ADRIAN Then again, the beauty of Dad retiring is what he says doesn't matter anymore.Cassius pulls out the dart.  The eye comes with it. CASSIUS I'll take that. Cassius throws the eye on the ground and stomps it.  THWACK! It splatters like a grape. HUMAN DARTBOARD Was thatreally necessary? Nicky enters sheepishly. CASSIUS Hey, how's Daddy's little girl doing today? NICKY Good, thanks. Cassius snaps his fingers in Nicky's face. CASSIUS Hey. Hey.Hey.  Wanna mind wrestle? Cassius' eyes start glowing red. NICKY Actually, I'll take a rain check on0 Nicky is slammed into a nearby desk as if by an invisible force. CASSIUS Got ya! NICKY(picking up his head) Yes, you got me... Nicky's head slams back down again. CASSIUS Got ya, again! NICKY (picking head up) Got me for sure, yes... He grabs a lamp off the desk and crackshimself over the head. CASSIUS Got ya!  Now here's the big finish... Nicky frowns as he finds his own right hand heading for his own crotch. NICKY Oh no.  Please Cassius... Nicky's hand is beingpossessed.  It gets closer and closer until it latches on to Nicky's crotch. NICKY (CONT'D) Aaaaah. Cassius concentrates even harder, making Nicky twist his own hand.  Nicky screams even louder.  Adriansmiles.  They don't notice that DAD, wearing a sweatsuit (and with very small devil horns), enters behind them. DAD What are you boys doing? Cassius releases Nicky's hand. NICKY Nothing,Dad.  Just re-arranging the furniture. DAD Cassius, didn't I tell you to stay out of your brother's mind? CASSIUS I forgot. DAD Maybe this will help you remember. Dad's eyes flash red andCassius punches himself hard in the nose, sending him back against the wall and down to the floor. Dad gives Nicky a wink.  Nicky smiles.  Dad has an air of confidence and power. DAD (CONT'D) Noweverybody sit down. NICKY Hey, Dad, I'm almost finished laying down my monsters of metal compilation tape.  I really think it's a masterpiece. DAD Okay, kid, we'll listen to it later. He leads theboys to the throne area.  We see outside the window the peeper staring in sexily.  Dad looks, shakes his head.  Just then, THE BIRD appears and attacks him.  Dad closes the curtains. Nicky, Adrian and Cassius sit onlittle stools at the foot of his throne.  Dad lights a cigarette with his finger, the tip of which glows red like a cigarette lighter and looks down at his three sons. DAD (CONT'D) My dad, your granddad, Lucifer,was thrown out of Heaven by G-d and rules here in hell for ten thousand years. And after this ten thousand years had passed, he decided to abdicate his throne... Confused, Nicky sheepishly raises his hand. DAD(CONT'D) ...to step aside. (Nicky lowers his hand) ...and let me become the ruler of hell. This, as some of you might know, is my ten thousandth year as Prince of Darkness.  So I think the time has come to discusswho will succeed me. Jimmy the Demon walks in. JIMMY THE DEMON Knock, knock. DAD Yes, Jimmy. He whispers in Dad's ear. DAD (CONT'D) No, no, that's not what I said.  He can keephis thumbs, but the fingers gotta go. JIMMY THE DEMON (turning to leave) Oh, and don't forget, you're shoving a pineapple up Hitler's ass at four o'clock. Dad nods, and Jimmy shuffles out.  Dad turns hisattention back to his sons. DAD This was a very difficult decision, because I have three wonderful sons.  I mean, Adrian, so smart, so ruthless. And Cassius, so strong, so tough.  And Nicky, so...so...NICKY Don't worry about coming up with anything.  It's cool. DAD Such a sweet boy.  But after much thought and careful consideration, I've decided that the ruler for the next ten thousand years is goingto have to be...me. CASSIUS AND ADRIAN (dumbfounded) What!? NICKY Hallelujah. They all look at Nicky. NICKY (CONT'D) I mean...tough break. DAD The important thing forthe stability of our rule is to maintain the balance between good and evil.  And I don't think any of you are ready for that responsibility yet.  You need the wisdom that comes only with the passage of time.CASSIUS Dad!  This is Hoyashit. Dad glares.  Cassius goes FLYING BACK.  One of the Human Dartboards laughs.  Cassius whips a dart and hits him in the tongue.  Jimmy enters and points at his watch.DAD Right.  Right.  Send him in. (to the boys) I'm sorry, boys.  I've got to get back to work. Nicky, Cassius and Adrian start filing out.  Adrian stops. ADRIAN You sure about this decision, Dad?DAD I'm telling you, pal, it's the right thing to do. HITLER (in a French maid's outfit), is being brought in by Jimmy.  They head towards the closet. Inside the closet is a crate of pineapples.  Hitler picks out arelatively small one.  Dad shakes his head "no."  Dad walks over to the closet.  Hitler picks out a really big pineapple. Dad nods "yes."  Hitler sadly hands it to Dad.  Jimmy bends Hitler over and as Dad raises thefruit... CLOSE ON HITLER'S EYES As the pineapple's jammed up his ass. HITLER Holy schnit!! EXT. HIGHWAY TO HELL - DAY Cassius and Adrian are standing by the road still flowing withsouls.  Both are pissed.  There's a big, ugly, Bigfoot looking MONSTER hanging out with them, kind of nodding along. CASSIUS You work your ass off for ten thousand years, hurting people, helping others hurtpeople, then you get a decision like that. ADRIAN And he's dead serious. CASSIUS It's just such a slap in the face. Adrian turns to the Monster. ADRIAN Um, excuse me, we're having aprivate conversation here. CASSIUS Yeah, get out of here!  Beat it! Cassius insanely snaps his fingers in the Monster's face. The Monster shrugs and walks off. ADRIAN Twenty-thousand years ago,


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<title>Air Force One</title>
                                    Air Force One                                      Andrew Marlow                FADE IN:               INT. C-130 HERCULES TURBO-PROP -NIGHT               Eighteen combat-ready special forces, wearing assault black,                jump packs and combat gear, stare down the deep end of a                greasy ramp into the night sky.  Village lights flicker19,000                feet below.               The STRIKE FORCE LEADER signals to his team.               Without a moment's hesitation, they dive into the darkness                and plummet toward earth.               EXT.MANSION - NIGHT               A military GUARD, old Soviet-style uniform, rounds the corner                of the large estate toting an AK-47.               A red laser dot appears briefly on his forehead and, aftera                beat, the red dot seems to bleed.  The Guard collapses dead.                 Two other GUARDS are dispatched with single, silenced shots.               A Strike Team member at a junction box awaits asignal.               Through infra-red binoculars the strike Force Leader watches                his assault troops as they take positions.                                     STRIKE FORCE LEADER                              (intoheadset/in                               Russian)                         GO!               On the estate - as the power goes out.  The team on the                mansion's front porch pops the door and poursin.               INT. MANSION - NIGHT               FOLLOWING - the FIVE TEAM MEMBERS as they rush a stairway in                phalanx formation.  They nearly knock over an old lady, who                in turn letsout a blood curdling scream.               UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR -               The team kicks open a door.  Rushes into the room.               INT. BEDROOM -               Assault weapons pointed at thebed.  The soldiers yank back                bedsheets to reveal IVAN STRAVANAVITCH, a middle-aged man                and his half-naked 18-year-oldconcubine.                                     SOLDIER                              (in Russian)                         Get up, now!  Up!               The soldiers pull Stravanavitch to his feet and haul him out                of theroom.               FOLLOWING -  As they push down the hallway.               MANSION SECURITY GUARDS rally with haphazard gunfire.               Out come the strike force's flash-banggrenades.  Exploding                everywhere, disorienting Stravanavitch's men.               EXT. FIELD - NIGHT               Signal flares burn as a helicopter descends on the position.                 The Strike Teamevacuates across the field and forces a                struggling Stravanavitch into the low-hovering copter.               The commandos swiftly board the craft as a handful of                Stravanavitch's guards break into theclearing.  They open                fire.               And the mounted machine guns on the helicopter return.               One of the Strike Team members takes a bullet to the neck.                 He's' pulled by his comrades intothe chopper as it lifts                into the sky, its guns spitting lead...               STRIKE FORCE LEADER (V.0.)               Archangel, this is Restitution.               Archangel, this is Restitution.  The package iswrapped.                 Over.                                     VOICE (V.0. RADIO)                         Roger, Restitution.  We are standing                          by for delivery.                                     FADE TOBLACK                         The SOUNDS of a dinner banquet.                           Forks clanking against plates and                          the din of a hundred conversations,                          broken by...               TheDING, DING, DING of a SPOON tapping against a wine glass.               SUPER TITLE:   "MOSCOW - THREE WEEKS LATER               FADE IN:               INT. BANQUET ROOM -NIGHT               Hundreds of men and women in formal evening wear sit at round                banquet tables.  A HUSH falls over the guests as the DINGING                continues.  All attention turns to the fronttable.               A rotund, silver haired-man in his late sixties rises and                sidles past U.S. and Russian flags up to the podium                microphone.  He is STOLI PETROV, President ofRussia.                                     PETROV                              (in Russian)                         Thank you for joining us this evening.               Petrov's harsh Russian issues through the room.  But overit                we hear a young woman's voice translating.                                     TRANSLATOR (V.0.)                         Tonight we are honored to have with                          us a man of remarkable courage,who,                          despite strong international                          criticism...               AT THE FRONT TABLE -               A translator's words ring in the earpiece of a handsome man                in hismid-forties.  Worry lines crease his forehead and the                touch of gray at his temples attest to three very difficult                years in office.               This man is JAMES MARSHALL, and he is the PRESIDENT ofthe                UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.  He busily makes last minute changes                to his speech.                                     TRANSLATOR                              (V.0. earpiece)                         Haschosen to join our fight against                          tyranny in forging a new world                          community.  Ladies and gentlemen, I                          give you the President of the United                          States ofAmerica...               Mr. President.               Thunderous applause as Marshall rises and approaches the                podium.               At the back of the room, DOHERTY, a senior policy adviser                whispers to thePresident's Chief of Staff ED SHEPHERD...                                     DOHERTY                         Maybe we should consider running him                          for re-election instead of the U.S.               The applausedies as Marshall begins to speak.                                     MARSHALL                              (in Russian with                               subtitles)                         Good evening and thank you.  FirstI                          would ask you to join me in a moment                          of silence for the victims of the                          Turkmenistan massacres.               The room remains silent a few beats.  Most guestsrespectfully                bow their heads.               Marshall begins again, but this time in English.  The young                woman translates simultaneously for the Russianaudience.                                     MARSHALL                         As you know, three weeks ago American                          Special Forces, in cooperation with                          the Russian Republican Army,secured                          the arrest of Turkmenistan's self-                         proclaimed dictator, General Ivan                          Stravanavitch, whose brutal sadistic                          reign had given new meaning tothe                          word horror.  I am proud to say our                          operation was a success.               Applause from the audience.  Marshall turns the page onhis                speech.                                     MARSHALL                         And now, yesterday's biggest threat                          to world peace... today awaits trial                          for crimes againsthumanity.               During the applause, Marshall pulls a page from the speech,                folds it and slides it into his pocket.  He removes his                glasses and looks out into the crowd.  His tone becomesmore                personal.               He's not reciting the speech anymore.                                     MARSHALL                         What we did here was important.  We                          finally pulled our headsout of the                          sand, we finally stood up to the                          brutality and said "We've had enough.                           Every time we ignore these atrocities--                          the rapes, the deathsquads, the                          genocides- every time we negotiate                          with these, these thugs to keep them                          out of gig country and away from gig                          families, every time wedo thiS.E.                          we legitimize terror.               Terror is not a legitimate system of government.  And to                those who commit the atrocities I say, we will no longer                tolerate, we will nolonger negotiate, and we will no longer                be afraid.  It's your turn to be afraid.               Applause rolls through the crowd.               EXT. MOSCOW INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT -NIGHT               Sprawling terminals spread out to runways like tentacles.               ON THE TARMAC -               Bathed in floodlights, perched majestically on the runway,                dwarfing nearbycommuter and military jets, stands...                                     AIR FORCE ONE                         The President's own Boeing 747-200,                          dubbed "the flying WhiteHouse".                           The distinctive royal blue stripe                          over a thin gold line tapers to a                          tail adorned with the American flag                          and the Presidential SealSecret                          Service agents and Marines stand                          guard at the aircraft's perimeter.               A RUSSIAN NEWS VAN emerges from the darkness and pulls to a                stop by a SecretService barricade.               SPECIAL AGENT GIBBS greets the Russian news team that emerges.                                     GIBBS                         Gentlemen, welcome to Air Force One.               Pleasepresent your equipment to Special Agent Walters for                inspection.               The news team's segment producer, a crusty old Russian named                KORSHUNOV raises his big bushyeyebrows.                                     KORSHUNOV                         We've already been inspected.                                     GIBBS                         Sir, this plane carries thePresident                          of the United States.               Though we wish to extend your press service every courtesy,                you will comply with our security measures to theletter.                                     KORSHUNOV                         Of course.  I'm sorry.               Korshunov and the FIVE MEMBERS of his news crew present their                video cameras, sound equipment andsupplies to Special Agent                WALTERS for inspection.  Secret Service DOGS sniff through                the baggage.                                     GIBBS                         Please place your thumbs on theID                          pad.               Korshunov puts his thumb on the ID pad of a portable computer.               The computer matches up his thumbprint with his dossierand                photograph.  "CLEARED" flashes on the computer screen.               INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT               The President, walking with his