ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pellucidar, by Edgar Rice BurroughsThis 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: PellucidarAuthor: Edgar Rice BurroughsPosting Date: July 26, 2008 [EBook #605]Release Date: July, 1996[Lastupdate: July 8, 2012]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PELLUCIDAR ***Produced by Judith BossPELLUCIDARByEdgar Rice BurroughsCONTENTSCHAPTER       PROLOGUE    I  LOSTON PELLUCIDAR   II  TRAVELING WITH TERROR  III  SHOOTING THE CHUTES--AND AFTER   IV  FRIENDSHIP AND TREACHERY    V  SURPRISES   VI  A PENDENT WORLD  VII  FROM PLIGHT TO PLIGHTVIII  CAPTIVE   IX  HOOJA'S CUTTHROATS APPEAR    X  THE RAID ON THE CAVE-PRISON   XI  ESCAPE  XII  KIDNAPED! XIII  RACING FOR LIFE  XIV  GORE AND DREAMS   XV  CONQUEST AND PEACEPROLOGUESeveralyears had elapsed since I had found the opportunity to do anybig-game hunting; for at last I had my plans almost perfected for areturn to my old stamping-grounds in northern Africa, where in otherdays I had hadexcellent sport in pursuit of the king of beasts.The date of my departure had been set; I was to leave in two weeks.  Noschoolboy counting the lagging hours that must pass before thebeginning of "long vacation"released him to the delirious joys of thesummer camp could have been filled with greater impatience or keeneranticipation.And then came a letter that started me for Africa twelve days ahead ofmy schedule.Often am Iin receipt of letters from strangers who have foundsomething in a story of mine to commend or to condemn.  My interest inthis department of my correspondence is ever fresh.  I opened thisparticular letter with all thezest of pleasurable anticipation withwhich I had opened so many others.  The post-mark (Algiers) had arousedmy interest and curiosity, especially at this time, since it wasAlgiers that was presently to witness thetermination of my coming seavoyage in search of sport and adventure.Before the reading of that letter was completed lions and lion-huntinghad fled my thoughts, and I was in a state of excitement borderinguponfrenzy.It--well, read it yourself, and see if you, too, do not find food forfrantic conjecture, for tantalizing doubts, and for a great hope.Here it is:DEAR SIR: I think that I have run across one of the mostremarkablecoincidences in modern literature.  But let me start at the beginning:I am, by profession, a wanderer upon the face of the earth.  I have notrade--nor any other occupation.My father bequeathed me acompetency; some remoter ancestors lust toroam.  I have combined the two and invested them carefully and withoutextravagance.I became interested in your story, At the Earth's Core, not so muchbecause of theprobability of the tale as of a great and abiding wonderthat people should be paid real money for writing such impossibletrash.  You will pardon my candor, but it is necessary that youunderstand my mental attitudetoward this particular story--that youmay credit that which follows.Shortly thereafter I started for the Sahara in search of a rather rarespecies of antelope that is to be found only occasionally within alimited area at acertain season of the year.  My chase led me far fromthe haunts of man.It was a fruitless search, however, in so far as antelope is concerned;but one night as I lay courting sleep at the edge of a little clusterofdate-palms that surround an ancient well in the midst of the arid,shifting sands, I suddenly became conscious of a strange sound comingapparently from the earth beneath my head.It was an intermittent ticking!Noreptile or insect with which I am familiar reproduces any suchnotes.  I lay for an hour--listening intently.At last my curiosity got the better of me.  I arose, lighted my lampand commenced to investigate.My bedding layupon a rug stretched directly upon the warm sand.  Thenoise appeared to be coming from beneath the rug.  I raised it, butfound nothing--yet, at intervals, the sound continued.I dug into the sand with the point of myhunting-knife.  A few inchesbelow the surface of the sand I encountered a solid substance that hadthe feel of wood beneath the sharp steel.Excavating about it, I unearthed a small wooden box.  From thisreceptacleissued the strange sound that I had heard.How had it come here?What did it contain?In attempting to lift it from its burying place I discovered that itseemed to be held fast by means of a very small insulated cablerunningfarther into the sand beneath it.My first impulse was to drag the thing loose by main strength; butfortunately I thought better of this and fell to examining the box.  Isoon saw that it was covered by a hinged lid,which was held closed bya simple screwhook and eye.It took but a moment to loosen this and raise the cover, when, to myutter astonishment, I discovered an ordinary telegraph instrumentclicking away within."What inthe world," thought I, "is this thing doing here?"That it was a French military instrument was my first guess; but reallythere didn't seem much likelihood that this was the correctexplanation, when one took into accountthe loneliness and remotenessof the spot.As I sat gazing at my remarkable find, which was ticking and clickingaway there in the silence of the desert night, trying to convey somemessage which I was unable tointerpret, my eyes fell upon a bit ofpaper lying in the bottom of the box beside the instrument.  I pickedit up and examined it.  Upon it were written but two letters:D. I.They meant nothing to me then.  I wasbaffled.Once, in an interval of silence upon the part of the receivinginstrument, I moved the sending-key up and down a few times.  Instantlythe receiving mechanism commenced to work frantically.I tried to recallsomething of the Morse Code, with which I had playedas a little boy--but time had obliterated it from my memory.  I becamealmost frantic as I let my imagination run riot among the possibilitiesfor which this clickinginstrument might stand.Some poor devil at the unknown other end might be in dire need ofsuccor.  The very franticness of the instrument's wild clashingbetokened something of the kind.And there sat I, powerless tointerpret, and so powerless to help!It was then that the inspiration came to me.  In a flash there leapedto my mind the closing paragraphs of the story I had read in the clubat Algiers:Does the answer lie somewhereupon the bosom of the broad Sahara, atthe ends of two tiny wires, hidden beneath a lost cairn?The idea seemed preposterous.  Experience and intelligence combined toassure me that there could be no slightest grain oftruth orpossibility in your wild tale--it was fiction pure and simple.And yet where WERE the other ends of those wires?What was this instrument--ticking away here in the great Sahara--but atravesty upon thepossible!Would I have believed in it had I not seen it with my own eyes?And the initials--D. I.--upon the slip of paper!David's initials were these--David Innes.I smiled at my imaginings.  I ridiculed the assumption thatthere wasan inner world and that these wires led downward through the earth'scrust to the surface of Pellucidar.  And yet--Well, I sat there all night, listening to that tantalizing clicking,now and then moving thesending-key just to let the other end know thatthe instrument had been discovered.  In the morning, after carefullyreturning the box to its hole and covering it over with sand, I calledmy servants about me, snatched ahurried breakfast, mounted my horse,and started upon a forced march for Algiers.I arrived here today.  In writing you this letter I feel that I ammaking a fool of myself.There is no David Innes.There is no Dian theBeautiful.There is no world within a world.Pellucidar is but a realm of your imagination--nothing more.BUT--The incident of the finding of that buried telegraph instrument uponthe lonely Sahara is little short of uncanny,in view of your story ofthe adventures of David Innes.I have called it one of the most remarkable coincidences in modernfiction.  I called it literature before, but--again pardon mycandor--your story is not.And now--whyam I writing you?Heaven knows, unless it is that the persistent clicking of thatunfathomable enigma out there in the vast silences of the Sahara has sowrought upon my nerves that reason refuses longer to functionsanely.I cannot hear it now, yet I know that far away to the south, all alonebeneath the sands, it is still pounding out its vain, frantic appeal.It is maddening.It is your fault--I want you to release me from it.Cable me atonce, at my expense, that there was no basis of fact foryour story, At the Earth's Core.Very respectfully yours,COGDON NESTOR,  ---- and ---- Club,    Algiers.      June 1st, --.Ten minutes after reading this letter I hadcabled Mr. Nestor asfollows:Story true.  Await me Algiers.As fast as train and boat would carry me, I sped toward my destination.For all those dragging days my mind was a whirl of mad conjecture, offrantic hope, ofnumbing fear.The finding of the telegraph-instrument practically assured me thatDavid Innes had driven Perry's iron mole back through the earth's crustto the buried world of Pellucidar; but what adventures hadbefallen himsince his return?Had he found Dian the Beautiful, his half-savage mate, safe among hisfriends, or had Hooja the Sly One succeeded in his nefarious schemes toabduct her?Did Abner Perry, the lovable oldinventor and paleontologist, stilllive?Had the federated tribes of Pellucidar succeeded in overthrowing themighty Mahars, the dominant race of reptilian monsters, and theirfierce, gorilla-like soldiery, the savageSagoths?I must admit that I was in a state bordering upon nervous prostrationwhen I entered the ---- and ---- Club, in Algiers, and inquired for Mr.Nestor.  A moment later I was ushered into his presence, to findmyselfclasping hands with the sort of chap that the world holds only too fewof.He was a tall, smooth-faced man of about thirty, clean-cut, straight,and strong, and weather-tanned to the hue of a desert Arab.  I likedhimimmensely from the first, and I hope that after our three monthstogether in the desert country--three months not entirely lacking inadventure--he found that a man may be a writer of "impossible trash"and yet havesome redeeming qualities.The day following my arrival at Algiers we left for the south, Nestorhaving made all arrangements in advance, guessing, as he naturally did,that I could be coming to Africa for but a singlepurpose--to hasten atonce to the buried telegraph-instrument and wrest its secret from it.In addition to our native servants, we took along an Englishtelegraph-operator named Frank Downes.  Nothing of interestenlivenedour journey by rail and caravan till we came to the cluster ofdate-palms about the ancient well upon the rim of the Sahara.It was the very spot at which I first had seen David Innes.  If he hadever raised acairn above the telegraph instrument no sign of itremained now.  Had it not been for the chance that caused Cogdon Nestorto throw down his sleeping rug directly over the hidden instrument, itmight still be clickingthere unheard--and this story still unwritten.When we reached the spot and unearthed the little box the instrumentwas quiet, nor did repeated attempts upon the part of our telegraphersucceed in winning a responsefrom the other end of the line.  Afterseveral days of futile endeavor to raise Pellucidar, we had begun todespair.  I was as positive that the other end of that little cableprotruded through the surface of the inner world asI am that I sithere today in my study--when about midnight of the fourth day I wasawakened by the sound of the instrument.Leaping to my feet I grasped Downes roughly by the neck and dragged himout of hisblankets.  He didn't need to be told what caused myexcitement, for the instant he was awake he, too, heard the long-hopedfor click, and with a whoop of delight pounced upon the instrument.Nestor was on his feetalmost as soon as I. The three of us huddledabout that little box as if our lives depended upon the message it hadfor us.Downes interrupted the clicking with his sending-key.  The noise of thereceiver stoppedinstantly."Ask who it is, Downes," I directed.He did so, and while we awaited the Englishman's translation of thereply, I doubt if either Nestor or I breathed."He says he's David Innes," said Downes.  "He wants to knowwho we are.""Tell him," said I; "and that we want to know how he is--and all thathas befallen him since I last saw him."For two months I talked with David Innes almost every day, and asDownes translated, eitherNestor or I took notes.  From these, arrangedin chronological order, I have set down the following account of thefurther adventures of David Innes at the earth's core, practically inhis own words.CHAPTER ILOST ONPELLUCIDARThe Arabs, of whom I wrote you at the end of my last letter (Innesbegan), and whom I thought to be enemies intent only upon murdering me,proved to be exceedingly friendly--they were searching for theveryband of marauders that had threatened my existence.  The hugerhamphorhynchus-like reptile that I had brought back with me from theinner world--the ugly Mahar that Hooja the Sly One had substituted formydear Dian at the moment of my departure--filled them with wonder andwith awe.Nor less so did the mighty subterranean prospector which had carried meto Pellucidar and back again, and which lay out in the desertabout twomiles from my camp.With their help I managed to get the unwieldy tons of its great bulkinto a vertical position--the nose deep in a hole we had dug in thesand and the rest of it supported by the trunks ofdate-palms cut forthe purpose.It was a mighty engineering job with only wild Arabs and their wildermounts to do the work of an electric crane--but finally it wascompleted, and I was ready for departure.For some time Ihesitated to take the Mahar back with me.  She had beendocile and quiet ever since she had discovered herself virtually aprisoner aboard the "iron mole." It had been, of course, impossible forme to communicate withher since she had no auditory organs and I noknowledge of her fourth-dimension, sixth-sense method of communication.Naturally I am kind-hearted, and so I found it beyond me to leave eventhis hateful and repulsivething alone in a strange and hostile world.The result was that when I entered the iron mole I took her with me.That she knew that we were about to return to Pellucidar was evident,for immediately her manner changedfrom that of habitual gloom that hadpervaded her, to an almost human expression of contentment and delight.Our trip through the earth's crust was but a repetition of my twoformer journeys between the inner and theouter worlds.  This time,however, I imagine that we must have maintained a more nearlyperpendicular course, for we accomplished the journey in a few minutes'less time than upon the occasion of my first journeythrough thefive-hundred-mile crust.  Just a trifle less than seventy-two hoursafter our departure into the sands of the Sahara, we broke through thesurface of Pellucidar.Fortune once again favored me by the slightest ofmargins, for when Iopened the door in the prospector's outer jacket I saw that we hadmissed coming up through the bottom of an ocean by but a few hundredyards.The aspect of the surrounding country was entirelyunfamiliar to me--Ihad no conception of precisely where I was upon the one hundred andtwenty-four million square miles of Pellucidar's vast land surface.The perpetual midday sun poured down its torrid rays fromzenith, as ithad done since the beginning of Pellucidarian time--as it wouldcontinue to do to the end of it.  Before me, across the wide sea, theweird, horizonless seascape folded gently upward to meet the sky untilit lostitself to view in the azure depths of distance far above thelevel of my eyes.How strange it looked! How vastly different from the flat and puny areaof the circumscribed vision of the dweller upon the outer crust!I waslost.  Though I wandered ceaselessly throughout a lifetime, Imight never discover the whereabouts of my former friends of thisstrange and savage world.  Never again might I see dear old Perry, norGhak the Hairy One,nor Dacor the Strong One, nor that other infinitelyprecious one--my sweet and noble mate, Dian the Beautiful!But even so I was glad to tread once more the surface of Pellucidar.Mysterious and terrible, grotesque andsavage though she is in many ofher aspects, I can not but love her.  Her very savagery appealed to me,for it is the savagery of unspoiled Nature.The magnificence of her tropic beauties enthralled me. Her mightylandareas breathed unfettered freedom.Her untracked oceans, whispering of virgin wonders unsullied by the eyeof man, beckoned me out upon their restless bosoms.Not for an instant did I regret the world of mynativity.  I was inPellucidar.  I was home.  And I was content.As I stood dreaming beside the giant thing that had brought me safelythrough the earth's crust, my traveling companion, the hideous Mahar,emerged fromthe interior of the prospector and stood beside me.  For along time she remained motionless.What thoughts were passing through the convolutions of her reptilianbrain?I do not know.She was a member of the dominantrace of Pellucidar.  By a strangefreak of evolution her kind had first developed the power of reason inthat world of anomalies.To her, creatures such as I were of a lower order.  As Perry haddiscovered among thewritings of her kind in the buried city of Phutra,it was still an open question among the Mahars as to whether manpossessed means of intelligent communication or the power of reason.Her kind believed that in thecenter of all-pervading solidity therewas a single, vast, spherical cavity, which was Pellucidar.  Thiscavity had been left there for the sole purpose of providing a placefor the creation and propagation of the Maharrace.  Everything withinit had been put there for the uses of the Mahar.I wondered what this particular Mahar might think now.  I foundpleasure in speculating upon just what the effect had been upon her ofpassingthrough the earth's crust, and coming out into a world that oneof even less intelligence than the great Mahars could easily see was adifferent world from her own Pellucidar.What had she thought of the outer world's tinysun?What had been the effect upon her of the moon and myriad stars of theclear African nights?How had she explained them?With what sensations of awe must she first have watched the sun movingslowly across theheavens to disappear at last beneath the westernhorizon, leaving in his wake that which the Mahar had never beforewitnessed--the darkness of night? For upon Pellucidar there is nonight.  The stationary sun hangsforever in the center of thePellucidarian sky--directly overhead.Then, too, she must have been impressed by the wondrous mechanism ofthe prospector which had bored its way from world to world and backagain.  Andthat it had been driven by a rational being must also haveoccurred to her.Too, she had seen me conversing with other men upon the earth'ssurface.  She had seen the arrival of the caravan of books and arms,andammunition, and the balance of the heterogeneous collection which Ihad crammed into the cabin of the iron mole for transportation toPellucidar.She had seen all these evidences of a civilization andbrain-powertranscending in scientific achievement anything that her race hadproduced; nor once had she seen a creature of her own kind.There could have been but a single deduction in the mind of theMahar--therewere other worlds than Pellucidar, and the gilak was arational being.Now the creature at my side was creeping slowly toward the near-by sea.At my hip hung a long-barreled six-shooter--somehow I had been unabletofind the same sensation of security in the newfangled automaticsthat had been perfected since my first departure from the outerworld--and in my hand was a heavy express rifle.I could have shot the Mahar with ease,for I knew intuitively that shewas escaping--but I did not.I felt that if she could return to her own kind with the story of heradventures, the position of the human race within Pellucidar would beadvanced immensely at asingle stride, for at once man would take hisproper place in the considerations of the reptilia.At the edge of the sea the creature paused and looked back at me.  Thenshe slid sinuously into the surf.For several minutes Isaw no more of her as she luxuriated in the cooldepths.Then a hundred yards from shore she rose and there for another shortwhile she floated upon the surface.Finally she spread her giant wings, flapped themvigorously a score oftimes and rose above the blue sea.  A single time she circled faraloft--and then straight as an arrow she sped away.I watched her until the distant haze enveloped her and she haddisappeared.  I


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     ADAPTATION                byCharlie Kaufman and Donald Kaufman       adapted from the book      THE ORCHIDTHIEF                by           Susan Orlean                                     September 24, 1999                                          Second DraftEXT. ROCKY TERRAIN - DAYEndless barren landscape. No signof life. The atmosphereis hazy, toxic-looking. Volcanoes erupt. Meteors bombard.Lightning strikes, concussing murky pools of water. Silence.INT. LARGE EMPTY LIVING ROOM - MORNINGSUBTITLE:HOLLYWOOD, CA, FOUR BILLION AND FORTY YEARS LATERBeamed ceilings and ostentatious fireplace. A few birthdaycards on the mantel, two of them identical: "To Our Dear Sonon His Fortieth Birthday." CharlieKaufman, a fat, baldingman in a purple sweater with tags still attached, paces theroom. His incantational voice-over carpets the scene.                    KAUFMAN (V.O.)          I am old. I am fat. I am bald.My          toenails have turned strange. I am          repulsive. How repulsive? I don't know          for I suffer from a condition called Body          Dysmorphic Disorder. I am fat, but am I          as fat as I think? Mytherapist says no,          but people lie. I believe others call me          Fatty behind my back. Or Fatso. Or,          facetiously, Slim. But I also believe          this is simply my own perverted formof          self-aggrandizement, that no one really          talks about me at all. What possible          interest is an old, bald, fat man to          anyone? I am repulsive. I have never          lived. I blame myself. I --EXT.STATE ROAD 29 - DAWNA lonely two-lane highway cutting through swampland.                    BRITISH NARRATOR          As natural selection works solely by and          for the good of each being, allcorporeal          and mental endowments will tend to          progress towards perfection.Suddenly, a beat-up white van barrels around a curve.   It'sfollowed closely by an old green Ford.SUBTITLE: STATE ROAD 29,FLORIDA, FIVE YEARS EARLIERINT. WHITE VAN - CONTINUOUSJohn Laroche drives. He's a skinny man with no front teeth.The van is piled with bags of potting soil, gardening junk.A Writings of CharlesDarwin audio cassette case is on theseat next toLaroche.                                                  (CONTINUED)                                                              2.CONTINUED:                    BRITISH NARRATOR          It isinteresting to contemplate an          entangled bank, clothed with many plants          of many kinds, with birds singing...Laroche tries to contemplate the plants and birds whizzingby. Almost too late, he spots theFakahatchee Strand StatePreserve sign and makes a squealing right onto the dirt roadturn-off. The cassette case flies from the seat and half-buries itself in an open bag of peat.INT. GREEN FORD -CONTINUOUSNirvana blasts. Russell, Vinson, and Randy, three youngIndian men, pass a joint and watch the erratic van ahead.                    RUSSELL          Laroche is asleep at thewheel.                    RANDY          Crazy White Man is now Drowsy White Man.They share a stoned laugh.EXT. NEW YORK APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHTSUBTITLE: NEW YORK, TWO YEARSLATERLate night street. The click-click of typing. We moveslowly up the building to the only glowing window.                    ORLEAN (O.S.)              (wistful)          John Laroche is a tall guy, skinny asa          stick, pale-eyed, slouch-shouldered and          sharply handsome despite the fact that he          is missing all his front teeth.In the window, lit by a single desk lamp, a woman types.INT. APARTMENT -CONTINUOUSWe glide over the desk piled with books about orchids, past aphoto of Laroche tacked to an overwhelmed bulletin board, andcome to rest on a woman typing. It's Susan Orlean: pale,delicate andblond. We lose ourselves in her melancholybeauty. She turns to the camera and talks tous.                                                     (CONTINUED)                                                              3.CONTINUED:                    ORLEAN          Two years ago I went toFlorida to meet          Laroche after reading a small article          about a white man and three Seminole men          arrested with rare orchids they'd stolen          out of a place called the...INT. RANGER'S TRUCK -MID-MORNINGTony, a ranger, drives along a dirt road past the FakahatcheeStrand State Preserve sign and enters the swamp. He sees thewhite van and Ford parked ahead, spots a Seminole licenseplate on theFord. He pulls over down the road, and whispersinto his C.B.                    TONY          We got a Seminole, or Seminoles, in the          swamp. I'm on Janes Scenic Drive just          east of Logging Road Twelve.I repeat,          Indians in the swamp.Tony waits for a response.   Nothing.                    TONY (cont'd)          Indians in the swamp.Nothing still.   Tony clears his throat into the radio.                    RADIOVOICE          I don't know what you want me to say.                    TONY          Barry, Indians do not go on swamp walks.          If there are Indians in the swamp, they          are in there for a reason.Noresponse. Tony glowers, gets out of the truck, watchesthe vehicles through binoculars. Nothing. He straightenshis cap. Mosquitoes land on his neck, his nose, his lips.INT. L.A. BUSINESS LUNCH RESTAURANT -MIDDAYKaufman, wearing his purple sweater sans tags, sits withValerie, an attractive woman in wire-rim glasses. They pickat salads. Kaufman steals glances at her lips, her hair, herbreasts. She looks up at him.He blanches, looks away.                     KAUFMAN (V.O.)          I'm old.   I'm bald. I'm repulsive.                    VALERIE          We think you're justgreat.                                                     (CONTINUED)                                                                 4.CONTINUED:                    KAUFMAN              (with studiedmodesty)          Oh, thank you.Valerie absently rubs her nose.      Kaufman self-consciouslyrubs his nose in response.                       VALERIE             And we're thrilled you're interested.Valerie rubs her noseagain. Kaufman pulls at his nostril.A rivulet of sweat slides down his forehead. Valerie watchesit. Kaufman sees her watching it. She sees him seeing herwatching it. She looks at her salad. He quicklyswabs.                       KAUFMAN             Oh, thanks, wow. That's nice to hear.                       VALERIE             You have a really unique voice.                       KAUFMAN             Well,thanks. That's... I appreciate             that.                       VALERIE             Very talented. Really.                        KAUFMAN             Thanks.   Thankyou.   Thanks.                       VALERIE                 (looking up)             So --Kaufman's brow is dripping again.      He smiles, embarrassed.                       KAUFMAN             Sort of hot inhere.                       VALERIE                 (kindly)             Yeah, it is a bit. So, why don't you             tell me your thoughts on this crazy             little project of ours.In one motion, Kaufman swabs hisforehead and pulls a bookentitled The Orchid Thief from his bag.                    KAUFMAN          First, I think it's a greatbook.                                                      (CONTINUED)                                                                   5.CONTINUED: (2)                    VALERIE          Laroche is a funcharacter, isn't he?Kaufman nods, flips through the book, stalling. There's asmiling author photo of Susan Orlean on the inside backcover.                    KAUFMAN          And Orlean makes orchids sofascinating.          Plus her musings on Florida, orchid          poaching. Indians. Great, sprawling New          Yorker stuff. I'd want to remain true to          that, let the movie exist rather than be          artificially plotdriven.                    VALERIE          Okay, great, great. I guess I'm not          exactly sure what that means.                   KAUFMAN          Oh. Well... I'm not sure exactly yet          either. So...y'know, it's...                         VALERIE          Oh.    Okay.     Great.   So, um, what --                    KAUFMAN          It's just, I don't want to compromise by          making it a Hollywood product. Anorchid          heist movie. Or changing the orchids          into poppies and turning it into a movie          about drug running. Y'know?                    VALERIE          Oh, of course. Weagree.        Definitely.                    KAUFMAN          Or cramming in sex, or car chases, or          guns. Or characters learning profound          life lessons. Or characters growing or          characters changingor characters          learning to like each other or characters          overcoming obstacles to succeed in the          end. Y'know? Movie shit.Kaufman is sweating like crazy now.       Valerie is quiet foramoment.                    VALERIE          See, we thought maybe Susan Orlean and          Laroche could fall in love during the          course of--                                                        (CONTINUED)                                                               6.CONTINUED: (3)                    KAUFMAN          Alienated journalistwrites about          passionate backwoods guy and he teaches          her to love. I mean, it didn't happen,          it wouldn't happen. It's Hollywood.INT. OFFICE - DAYSUBTITLE: HOLLYWOOD,CALIFORNIA, THREE WEEKS EARLIERThe office is decorated with potted flowers, Audobon posters,lots of books. Kaufman, nervous and sweaty, watchesMargaret, a soulful development executive, unpackboxes.                    KAUFMAN          So anyway I just wanted to stop by to          congratulate you on your promotion.                    MARGARET          Well, thanks again.   It's all sostupid.                    KAUFMAN          I think it's great. Your photo in the          trades and everything. Pretty cool.                      MARGARET          Anyway.    Yeah. So what's up withyou?                    KAUFMAN          I'm considering jobs. Mostly crap.          There's one you might like, about          flowers.                     MARGARET          Flowers?   Really? What isit?                    KAUFMAN          They want me to do an adaptation of a          book called The Orchid Thief.                    MARGARET          Oh my God! You're kidding?    I read that!          I lovedthat book!Kaufman is thrilled; he's scored. Margaret pulls a copy ofThe Orchid Thief from her bookshelf.                    MARGARET (cont'd)          See, see, see! I'm not lying to


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great Shadow and Other Napoleonic Talesby Arthur Conan DoyleThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You maycopy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Great Shadow and Other Napoleonic TalesAuthor: Arthur ConanDoyleRelease Date: March 22, 2004 [EBook #11656]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT SHADOW ***Produced by Lionel G. SearTHE GREAT SHADOW AND OTHERNAPOLEONIC TALESA. CONAN DOYLECONTENTSTHE GREAT SHADOW  I.    THE NIGHT OF THE BEACONS  II.   COUSIN EDIE OF EYEMOUTH  III.  THE SHADOW ON THE WATERS  IV.   THE CHOOSING OF JIM  V.    THEMAN FROM THE SEA  VI.   A WANDERING EAGLE  VII.  THE SHADOW ON THE LAND  VIII. THE COMING OF THE CUTTER  IX.   THE DOINGS AT WEST INCH  X.    THE RETURN OF THE SHADOW  XI.   THE GATHERING OFTHE NATIONS  XII.  THE SHADOW ON THE LAND  XIII. THE END OF THE STORM  XIV.  THE TALLY OF DEATH  XV.   THE END OF ITTHE CRIME OF THE BRIGADIERTHE "SLAPPING SAL"THE GREAT SHADOW.CHAPTERI.THE NIGHT OF THE BEACONS.It is strange to me, Jock Calder of West Inch, to feel that though now,in the very centre of the nineteenth century, I am but five-and-fiftyyears of age, and though it is only once in a weekperhaps that my wifecan pluck out a little grey bristle from over my ear, yet I have livedin a time when the thoughts and the ways of men were as different asthough it were another planet from this.  For when I walk inmy fields Ican see, down Berwick way, the little fluffs of white smoke which tellme of this strange new hundred-legged beast, with coals for food and athousand men in its belly, for ever crawling over the border.On ashiny day I can see the glint of the brass work as it takes thecurve near Corriemuir; and then, as I look out to sea, there is the samebeast again, or a dozen of them maybe, leaving a trail of black in theair and of whitein the water, and swimming in the face of the wind aseasily as a salmon up the Tweed.  Such a sight as that would have struckmy good old father speechless with wrath as well as surprise; for he wasso stricken with thefear of offending the Creator that he was chary ofcontradicting Nature, and always held the new thing to be nearly akin tothe blasphemous.  As long as God made the horse, and a man downBirmingham way the engine,my good old dad would have stuck by thesaddle and the spurs.But he would have been still more surprised had he seen the peace andkindliness which reigns now in the hearts of men, and the talk in thepapers and atthe meetings that there is to be no more war--save, ofcourse, with blacks and such like.  For when he died we had beenfighting with scarce a break, save only during two short years, for verynearly a quarter of acentury.  Think of it, you who live so quietly andpeacefully now!  Babies who were born in the war grew to be bearded menwith babies of their own, and still the war continued.  Those who hadserved and fought in theirstalwart prime grew stiff and bent, and yetthe ships and the armies were struggling.  It was no wonder that folkcame at last to look upon it as the natural state, and thought how queerit must seem to be atpeace.  During that long time we fought the Dutch,we fought the Danes, we fought the Spanish, we fought the Turks, wefought the Americans, we fought the Monte-Videans, until it seemed thatin this universal struggleno race was too near of kin, or too far away,to be drawn into the quarrel.  But most of all it was the French whom wefought, and the man whom of all others we loathed and feared and admiredwas the great Captainwho ruled them.It was very well to draw pictures of him, and sing songs about him, andmake as though he were an impostor; but I can tell you that the fear ofthat man hung like a black shadow over all Europe, andthat there was atime when the glint of a fire at night upon the coast would set everywoman upon her knees and every man gripping for his musket.  He hadalways won: that was the terror of it.  The Fates seemed to bebehindhim.  And now we knew that he lay upon the northern coast with a hundredand fifty thousand veterans, and the boats for their passage.  But it isan old story, how a third of the grown folk of our country took uparms,and how our little one-eyed, one-armed man crushed their fleet.There was still to be a land of free thinking and free speaking inEurope.There was a great beacon ready on the hill by Tweedmouth, built up oflogsand tar-barrels; and I can well remember how, night after night, Istrained my eyes to see if it were ablaze.  I was only eight at thetime, but it is an age when one takes a grief to heart, and I felt asthough the fate of thecountry hung in some fashion upon me and myvigilance.  And then one night as I looked I suddenly saw a littleflicker on the beacon hill--a single red tongue of flame in thedarkness.  I remember how I rubbed my eyes,and pinched myself, andrapped my knuckles against the stone window-sill, to make sure that Iwas indeed awake.  And then the flame shot higher, and I saw the redquivering line upon the water between; and I dashedinto the kitchen,screeching to my father that the French had crossed and the Tweedmouthlight was aflame.  He had been talking to Mr. Mitchell, the law studentfrom Edinburgh; and I can see him now as he knocked hispipe out at theside of the fire, and looked at me from over the top of his hornspectacles."Are you sure, Jock?" says he."Sure as death!" I gasped.He reached out his hand for the Bible upon the table, and opened ituponhis knee as though he meant to read to us; but he shut it again insilence, and hurried out.  We went too, the law student and I, andfollowed him down to the gate which opens out upon the highway.  Fromthere wecould see the red light of the big beacon, and the glimmer of asmaller one to the north of us at Ayton.  My mother came down with twoplaids to keep the chill from us, and we all stood there until morning,speaking littleto each other, and that little in a whisper.  The roadhad more folk on it than ever passed along it at night before; for manyof the yeomen up our way had enrolled themselves in the Berwickvolunteer regiments, andwere riding now as fast as hoof could carrythem for the muster.  Some had a stirrup cup or two before parting, andI cannot forget one who tore past on a huge white horse, brandishing agreat rusty sword in themoonlight.  They shouted to us as they passedthat the North Berwick Law fire was blazing, and that it was thoughtthat the alarm had come from Edinburgh Castle.  There were a few whogalloped the other way, couriersfor Edinburgh, and the laird's son, andMaster Clayton, the deputy sheriff, and such like.  And among othersthere was one a fine built, heavy man on a roan horse, who pulled up atour gate and asked some questionabout the road.  He took off his hat toease himself, and I saw that he had a kindly long-drawn face, and agreat high brow that shot away up into tufts of sandy hair."I doubt it's a false alarm," said he.  "Maybe I'd ha'done well to bidewhere I was; but now I've come so far, I'll break my fast with theregiment."He clapped spurs to his horse, and away he went down the brae."I ken him weel," said our student, nodding after him.  "He'sa lawyerin Edinburgh, and a braw hand at the stringin' of verses.  Wattie Scottis his name."None of us had heard of it then; but it was not long before it was thebest known name in Scotland, and many a time wethought of how hespeered his way of us on the night of the terror.But early in the morning we had our minds set at ease.  It was grey andcold, and my mother had gone up to the house to make a pot of tea forus, whenthere came a gig down the road with Dr. Horscroft of Ayton init and his son Jim.  The collar of the doctor's brown coat came over hisears, and he looked in a deadly black humour; for Jim, who was butfifteen years ofage, had trooped off to Berwick at the first alarm withhis father's new fowling piece.  All night his dad had chased him, andnow there he was, a prisoner, with the barrel of the stolen gun stickingout from behind theseat.  He looked as sulky as his father, with hishands thrust into his side-pockets, his brows drawn down, and his lowerlip thrusting out."It's all a lie!" shouted the doctor as he passed.  "There has been nolanding, andall the fools in Scotland have been gadding about the roadsfor nothing."His son Jim snarled something up at him on this, and his father struckhim a blow with his clenched fist on the side of his head, which sentthe boy'schin forward upon his breast as though he had been stunned.My father shook his head, for he had a liking for Jim; but we all walkedup to the house again, nodding and blinking, and hardly able to keep oureyes opennow that we knew that all was safe, but with a thrill of joyat our hearts such as I have only matched once or twice in mylifetime.Now all this has little enough to do with what I took my pen up to tellabout; but when aman has a good memory and little skill, he cannot drawone thought from his mind without a dozen others trailing out behind it.And yet, now that I come to think of it, this had something to do withit after all; for JimHorscroft had so deadly a quarrel with his father,that he was packed off to the Berwick Academy, and as my father had longwished me to go there, he took advantage of this chance to send me also.But before I say aword about this school, I shall go back to where Ishould have begun, and give you a hint as to who I am; for it may bethat these words of mine may be read by some folk beyond the bordercountry who never heard ofthe Calders of  West Inch.It has a brave sound, West Inch, but it is not a fine estate with abraw house upon it, but only a great hard-bitten, wind-swept sheep run,fringing off into links along the sea-shore, where afrugal man mightwith hard work just pay his rent and have butter instead of treacle onSundays.  In the centre there is a grey-stoned slate-roofed house with abyre behind it, and "1703" scrawled in stonework over thelintel of thedoor.  There for more than a hundred years our folk have lived, until,for all their poverty, they came to take a good place among the people;for in the country parts the old yeoman is often better thought ofthanthe new laird.There was one queer thing about the house of West Inch.  It has beenreckoned by engineers and other knowing folk that the boundary linebetween the two countries ran right through the middle of it,splittingour second-best bedroom into an English half and a Scotch half.  Now thecot in which I always slept was so placed that my head was to the northof the line and my feet to the south of it.  My friends say that ifIhad chanced to lie the other way my hair might not have been so sandy,nor my mind of so solemn a cast.  This I know, that more than once in mylife, when my Scotch head could see no way out of a danger, mygoodthick English legs have come to my help, and carried me clear away.But at school I never heard the end of this, for they would call me"Half-and-half" and "The Great Britain," and sometimes "Union Jack."Whenthere was a battle between the Scotch and English boys, one sidewould kick my shins and the other cuff my ears, and then they would bothstop and laugh as though it were something funny.At first I was very miserableat the Berwick Academy.  Birtwhistle wasthe first master, and Adams the second, and I had no love for either ofthem.  I was shy and backward by nature, and slow at making a friendeither among masters or boys.  Itwas nine miles as the crow flies, andeleven and a half by road, from Berwick to West Inch, and my heart grewheavy at the weary distance that separated me from my mother; for, markyou, a lad of that age pretendsthat he has no need of his mother'scaresses, but ah, how sad he is when he is taken at his word!  At last Icould stand it no longer, and I determined to run away from the schooland make my way home as fast as Imight.  At the very last moment,however, I had the good fortune to win the praise and admiration ofevery one, from the headmaster downwards, and to find my school lifemade very pleasant and easy to me.  And allthis came of my falling byaccident out of a second-floor window.This was how it happened.  One evening I had been kicked by Ned Barton,who was the bully of the school; and this injury coming on the top ofall myother grievances, caused my little cup to overflow.  I vowed thatnight, as I buried my tear-stained face beneath the blankets, that thenext morning would either find me at West Inch or well on the way to it.Ourdormitory was on the second floor, but I was a famous climber, andhad a fine head for heights. I used to think little, young as I was, ofswinging myself with a rope round my thigh off the West Inch gable, andthat stoodthree-and-fifty feet above the ground.  There was not muchfear then but that I could make my way out of Birtwhistle's dormitory.I waited a weary while until the coughing and tossing had died away, andthere was nosound of wakefulness from the long line of wooden cots;then I very softly rose, slipped on my clothes, took my shoes in myhand, and walked tiptoe to the window.  I opened the casement and lookedout.  Underneathme lay the garden, and close by my hand was the stoutbranch of a pear tree. An active lad could ask no better ladder.Once in the garden I had but a five-foot wall to get over, and thenthere was nothing but distancebetween me and home.  I took a firm gripof a branch with one hand, placed my knee upon another one, and wasabout to swing myself out of the window, when in a moment I was assilent and as still as though I hadbeen turned to stone.There was a face looking at me from over the coping of the wall.  Achill of fear struck to my heart at its whiteness and its stillness.The moon shimmered upon it, and the eyeballs moved slowly fromside toside, though I was hid from them behind the screen of the pear tree.Then in a jerky fashion this white face ascended, until the neck,shoulders, waist, and knees of a man became visible.  He sat himselfdown onthe top of the wall, and with a great heave he pulled up afterhim a boy about my own size, who caught his breath from time to time asthough to choke down a sob.  The man gave him a shake, with a fewroughwhispered words, and then the two dropped together down into the garden.I was still standing balanced with one foot upon the bough and one uponthe casement, not daring to budge for fear of attractingtheirattention, for I could hear them moving stealthily about in the longshadow of the house.  Suddenly, from immediately beneath my feet, Iheard a low grating noise and the sharp tinkle of falling glass."That's doneit," said the man's eager whisper.  "There is room foryou.""But the edge is all jagged!" cried the other in a weak quaver.The fellow burst out into an oath that made my skin pringle."In with you, you cub," he snarled,"or--"I could not see what he did, but there was a short, quick gasp of pain."I'll go!  I'll go!" cried the little lad.But I heard no more, for my head suddenly swam, my heel shot off thebranch, I gave a dreadful yell, andcame down, with my ninety-fivepounds of weight, right upon the bent back of the burglar.  If you askme, I can only say that to this day I am not quite certain whether itwas an accident or whether I designed it.  It maybe that while I wasthinking of doing it Chance settled the matter for me.  The fellow wasstooping with his head forward thrusting the boy through a tiny window,when I came down upon him just where the neck joinsthe spine.  He gavea kind of whistling cry, dropped upon his face, and rolled three timesover, drumming on the grass with his heels.  His little companionflashed off in the moonlight, and was over the wall in a trice.  Asforme, I sat yelling at the pitch of my lungs and nursing one of my legs,which felt as if a red-hot ring were welded round it.It was not long, as may be imagined, before the whole household, fromthe headmaster to thestable boy, were out in the garden with lamps andlanterns.  The matter was soon cleared: the man carried off upon ashutter, and I borne in much state and solemnity to a special bedroom,where the small bone of myleg was set by Surgeon Purdie, the younger ofthe two brothers of that name.  As to the robber, it was found that hislegs were palsied, and the doctors were of two minds as to whether hewould recover the use of themor no; but the Law never gave them achance of settling the matter, for he was hanged after Carlisle assizes,some six weeks later.  It was proved that he was the most desperaterogue in the North of England, for he haddone three murders at theleast, and there were charges enough against him upon the sheet to havehanged him ten times over.Well now, I could not pass over my boyhood without telling you aboutthis, which was themost important thing that happened to me.  But Iwill go off upon no more side tracks; for when I think of all that iscoming, I can see very well that I shall have more than enough to dobefore I have finished.  For whena man has only his own little privatetale to tell, it often takes him all his time; but when he gets mixed upin such great matters as I shall have to speak about, then it is hard onhim, if he has not been brought up to it, toget it all set down to hisliking.  But my memory is as good as ever, thank God, and I shall try toget it all straight before I finish.It was this business of the burglar that first made a friendship betweenJim Horscroft, thedoctor's son, and me.  He was cock boy of the schoolfrom the day he came; for within the hour he had thrown Barton, who hadbeen cock before him, right through the big blackboard in theclass-room.  Jim always ranto muscle and bone, and even then he wassquare and tall, short of speech and long in the arm, much given tolounging with his broad back against walls, and his hands deep in hisbreeches pockets.  I can even recallthat he had a trick of keeping astraw in the corner of his mouth, just where he used afterwards to holdhis pipe.  Jim was always the same for good and for bad since first Iknew him.Heavens, how we all looked up tohim!  We were but young savages, andhad a savage's respect for power.  There was Tom Carndale of Appleby,who could write alcaics as well as mere pentameters and hexameters, yetnobody would give a snap forTom; and there was Willie Earnshaw, whohad every date, from the killing of Abel, on the tip of his tongue, sothat the masters themselves would turn to him if they were in doubt, yethe was but a narrow-chested lad,over long for his breadth; and what didhis dates help him when Jack Simons of the lower third chivied him downthe passage with the buckle end of a strap?  But you didn't do thingslike that with Jim Horscroft.  Whattales we used to whisper about hisstrength!  How he put his fist through the oak-panel of thegame-room door; how, when Long Merridew was carrying the ball, he caughtup Merridew, ball and all, and ran swiftly pastevery opponent to thegoal.  It did not seem fit to us that such a one as he should troublehis head about spondees and dactyls, or care to know who signed theMagna Charta.  When he said in open class that King Alfredwas the man,we little boys all felt that very likely it was so, and that perhaps Jimknew more about it than the man who wrote the book.Well, it was this business of the burglar that drew his attention to me;for he pattedme on my head, and said that I was a spunky little devil,which blew me out with pride for a week on end.  For two years we wereclose  friends, for all the gap that the years had made between us, andthough in passionor in want of thought he did many a thing that galledme, yet I loved him like a brother, and wept as much as would havefilled an ink bottle when at last he went off to Edinburgh to study hisfather's profession.  Fiveyears after that did I tide at Birtwhistle's,and when I left had become cock myself, for I was wiry and as tough aswhalebone, though I never ran to weight and sinew like my greatpredecessor.  It was in Jubilee Year thatI left Birtwhistle's, and thenfor three years I stayed at home learning the ways of the cattle; butstill the ships and the armies were wrestling, and still the greatshadow of Bonaparte lay across the country.  How could Iguess that Itoo should have a hand in lifting that shadow for ever from our people?CHAPTER II.COUSIN EDIE OF EYEMOUTH.Some years before, when I was still but a lad, there had come over to usupon a five weeks'visit the only daughter of my father's brother.Willie Calder had settled at Eyemouth as a maker of fishing nets, and hehad made more out of twine than ever we were like to do out of thewhin-bushes and sand-links ofWest Inch.  So his daughter, Edie Calder,came over with a braw red frock and a five shilling bonnet, and a kistfull of things that brought my dear mother's eyes out like a partan's.It was wonderful to see her so free with


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                         PINEAPPLE EXPRESS                             Written by                        Judd Apatow, Seth Rogen & EvanGoldberg                                                                             November 28, 2006                              EXT. FARMLAND - DAWN                    INBLACK AND WHITE, A black 1930s Cadillac speeds down                 the only visible road amidst endless plains of farmland.          The road curves sharply ahead - the car accelerates.          Ignoring the turn, the Caddydrives directly off the road          and through a massive field of emptiness.                    The car abruptly stops in the middle of the vacant field.          GENERAL BRAT (58, a patch covers one of his eyes)and          AGENT BLACK SUIT (an agent in a black suit) step out of          the car.                    Although there is clearly nothing in sight for miles, the          General scans his surroundings withconcern.                    TITLE CARD UP: THE PAST                                                          Agent Black Suit crouches down and pulls open a METAL          HATCH in the ground. Both menwalk down the hatch and          into the earth.                              INT. UNDERGROUND FACILITY - MOMENTS LATER                    They descend a metal staircase and walk withgreat          urgency down a narrow corridor. The hallway spills into a          hauntingly huge metal room with a lone SCIENTIST standing          in the middle. The Scientist immediately begins leading          them acrossthe room.                                           GENERAL BRAT                    When did it start?                                           SCIENTIST                    At 05:00. We're seven minutesin.                              INT. OBSERVATION LAB - CONTINUOUS                    The three men enter a large room divided by a one-way          mirror.                    On theirside, numerous SCIENTISTS, utilizing several          archaic devices, are busy at work monitoring the subject          on the other side of the mirror.                    The subject: PRIVATE MILLER (22, naive anddutiful) sits          at a small table with a microphone on it. Miller raises          his hand, REVEALING a smolderingJOINT.                                                                              2                              He takes a long and awkward hit from the joint and bursts          into a coughingfit.                    The scientists begin to scribble profusely as their          devices blink manically. General Brat and Agent Black          Suit exchange a concerned look. The General lights a          cigarette as theScientist steps up to a small microphone          in the corner.                                           SCIENTIST                           (into microphone)                    Private Miller, we are now going toask                    you several questions. How do you feel?                    His voice booms through large speakers on Miller's side          of the room. Miller leans towards themicrophone.                                            PRIVATE MILLER                    Uh, I feel a little queer sir. But...                    It's good. Good queer.                           (beat)                    Sir. Good queer,Sir.                    The scientists scribble madly. One of them mumbles into          General Brat's ear.                                           PRIVATE MILLER (CONT'D)                    But...uh...eventhough I feel queer, Sir,                    I should mention that I'm also feeling                    quite gay...so, a little queer, but                    mostlygay.                                           SCIENTIST                    Private Miller. When you think of your                    superiors, what emotions do youfeel?                                           PRIVATE MILLER                           (holding out the joint)                    This wentout...Sir.                                           SCIENTIST                    We will send someone in. Now answer the                    question.                    A door opens beside Private Miller and anAGENT steps out          wearing an intricate uniform that resembles an old          fashioned diving suit, an air hose leading out the door          that he came from. He slowly walks toward the Private,          who looks athim in shock.                                           SCIENTIST (CONT'D) (O.S)                           (through speakers)                    Private Miller? Answer thequestion.                                                                               3                                                               PRIVATE MILLER                    Oh...um...whatwas the question again?                    The Agent in the strange suit reaches the private and          holds a lighter up to the joint.                                           SCIENTIST(O.S.)                           (through speakers)                    What are your emotions towards your                    superiors?                    Miller pulls at the joint until it is lit again. The          Agent exits theroom.                                            PRIVATE MILLER                     COUGH   COUGH  Fucking shit.                           (beat)                    Well, now that I think of it, it's                    strange thatthey are called my                    `superiors'. Does that make me their                    `inferior'? I mean, that's pretty fucked                    up.                    General Bratscowls.                                           GENERAL BRAT                           (curtly to the scientists)                    I've seen enough. Shut it down. Bury the                    hatch, sell the land, and dispose ofhim.                    This never happened.                    Instantly, the scientists start packing up their          equipment. Staring at Miller, General Brat grabs a RED          PHONE and dials. Two Agents in thescuba-like suits          emerge from behind Miller and start aggressively dragging          him away.                                           PRIVATE MILLER                           (freaking out)                    Hey!What the...what are you guys doing!                                  Let go of me!                           (desperately looking at the                            mirror)                    Sir!!! Sir!!! Helpme!!!                                            GENERAL                           (into phone)                    This is General Brat. We've reached a                    final conclusion on Item9.                           (beat)                    Illegal.                    He hangs up thephone.                                                                               4                                        CUT TO BLACK.                    TITLE CARD UP: THEPRESENT                                                                    INT. DALE'S CAR - CONTINUOUS                                                        DALE DENTON (late 20s, out of shape,slightly unkempt)          looks out of place in his black suit as he drives he sits                 in his cluttered and worn old lady car. He smokes a joint                 while listening to talkradio.                                                                             TALK RADIO DJ                                                Well, let's look at the facts.                                            Financially, coins are betterbecause                                     they're cheaper, and environmentally,                                     forget-about-it, coins win hands down.                                    For those just joining us, we'rewith                                     caller Dale Denton discussing if America                                  should lose the paper dollar bill.                                        We see that Dale has a wireless ear piecein.                                                              DALE                                                         Of course not! Who wants a pocket full of                                 coins? Seriously. Weighs down yourpants,                                 clangs around. With all this unnecessary                                  new security everywhere, we'll be setting                                 off alarms left andright!                                                                       TALK RADIO DJ                                                We certainly do, Mr. Denton. Crude, but                                   to the point. Nextcaller!                                                Dale puts away his phone and pulls up in front of a nice                  house.                                                                                EXT.FRONT DOOR - MOMENTS LATER                                                     Dale, wearing a name tag that reads "Garth", holding a                    clip board and wearing a greenpeace hat,knocks                           repeatedly on the door. A woman cautiously answersthe                    door.                                                                                WOMAN                                                        Um, I didn't order apizza.                                                                                DALE                                                         Excuse me, miss? Are you Sandra Danby                                                                                5                                                                WOMAN                                                       Uh...yea-                                                                 Dale shoves an envelope into her hand.                                                                     DALE                                                         Sorry, miss, but you've failed to showup                                 to your divorce proceedings 4 times under                                 court order. You've beenserved.                                                                 WOMAN                                                        Oh great! Thanks a lot asshole! Real                                      clever! Go fuckyourself!                                                 Dale dashes back to his car as the upset woman starts to                  open theenvelope.                                                                            INT. DALE'S CAR - SOON AFTER                                                        Dale is driving and smoking a joint. He looks


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gods are Athirst, by Anatole FranceThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Gods are AthirstAuthor: Anatole FranceTranslator: Mrs. Wilfrid JacksonRelease Date: December 24,2007 [EBook #24010]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GODS ARE ATHIRST ***Produced by R. Cedron, Camille FranÃ§ois, Henry Craig andthe Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive)THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCEIN AN ENGLISH TRANSLATIONEDITED BY FREDERICCHAPMANTHE GODS ARE ATHIRST[Illustration]THE GODS AREATHIRSTBY ANATOLE FRANCEA TRANSLATION BYMRS. WILFRID JACKSON[Illustration]NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANYLONDON: JOHN LANE, THEBODLEY HEADTORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN MCMXIVCopyright, 1913 byJOHN LANE COMPANYTHE GODS ARE ATHIRSTIÃvariste Gamelin, painter, pupil of David, member of the Section duPont-Neuf, formerly SectionHenri IV, had betaken himself at an earlyhour in the morning to the old church of the Barnabites, which for threeyears, since 21st May 1790, had served as meeting-place for the GeneralAssembly of the Section. Thechurch stood in a narrow, gloomy square,not far from the gates of the Palais de Justice. On the faÃ§ade, whichconsisted of two of the Classical orders superimposed and was decoratedwith inverted brackets and flamingurns, blackened by the weather anddisfigured by the hand of man, the religious emblems had been batteredto pieces, while above the doorway had been inscribed in black lettersthe Republican catchword of "Liberty,Equality, Fraternity or Death."Ãvariste Gamelin made his way into the nave; the same vaults which hadheard the surpliced clerks of the Congregation of St. Paul sing thedivine offices, now looked down on red-cappedpatriots assembled toelect the Municipal magistrates and deliberate on the affairs of theSection. The Saints had been dragged from their niches and replaced bythe busts of Brutus, Jean-Jacques and Le Peltier. The altarhad beenstripped bare and was surmounted by the Table of the Rights of Man.It was here in the nave that twice a week, from five in the evening toeleven, were held the public assemblies. The pulpit, decorated withthecolours of the Nation, served as tribune for the speakers who haranguedthe meeting. Opposite, on the Epistle side, rose a platform of roughplanks, for the accommodation of the women and children, whoattendedthese gatherings in considerable numbers.On this particular morning, facing a desk planted underneath the pulpit,sat in red cap and _carmagnole_ complete the joiner from the PlaceThionville, the _citoyen_Dupont senior, one of the twelve forming theCommittee of Surveillance. On the desk stood a bottle and glasses, anink-horn, and a folio containing the text of the petition urging theConvention to expel from its bosomthe twenty-two members deemedunworthy.Ãvariste Gamelin took the pen and signed."I was sure," said the carpenter and magistrate, "I was sure you wouldcome and give in your name, _citoyen_ Gamelin. You arethe real thing.But the Section is lukewarm; it is lacking in virtue. I have proposed tothe Committee of Surveillance to deliver no certificate of citizenshipto any one who has failed to sign the petition.""I am ready to signwith my blood," said Gamelin, "for the proscriptionof these federalists, these traitors. They have desired the death ofMarat: let them perish.""What ruins us," replied Dupont senior, "is indifferentism. In a Sectionwhichcontains nine hundred citizens with the right to vote there arenot fifty attend the assembly. Yesterday we were eight and twenty.""Well then," said Gamelin, "citizens must be obliged to come underpenalty of afine.""Oh, ho!" exclaimed the joiner frowning, "but if they all came, thepatriots would be in a minority.... _Citoyen_ Gamelin, will you drink aglass of wine to the health of all good sansculottes?..."On the wall of thechurch, on the Gospel side, could be read the words,accompanied by a black hand, the forefinger pointing to the passageleading to the cloisters: "_ComitÃ© civil, ComitÃ© de surveillance, ComitÃ©de bienfaisance._" Afew yards further on, you came to the door of theerstwhile sacristy, over which was inscribed: _ComitÃ© militaire_.Gamelin pushed this door open and found the Secretary of the Committeewithin; he was writing at alarge table loaded with books, papers, steelingots, cartridges and samples of saltpetre-bearing soils."Greeting, _citoyen_ Trubert. How are you?""I?... I am perfectly well."The Secretary of the Military Committee,FortunÃ© Trubert, invariablymade this same reply to all who troubled about his health, less by wayof informing them of his welfare than to cut short any discussion on thesubject. At twenty-eight, he had a parchedskin, thin hair, hecticcheeks and bent shoulders. He was an optician on the Quai des OrfÃ¨vres,and owned a very old house which he had given up in '91 to asuperannuated clerk in order to devote his energies to thedischarge ofhis municipal duties. His mother, a charming woman, whose memory a fewold men of the neighbourhood still cherished fondly, had died at twenty;she had left him her fine eyes, full of gentleness andpassion, herpallor and timidity. From his father, optician and mathematicalinstrument maker to the King, carried off by the same complaint beforehis thirtieth year, he inherited an upright character and anindustrioustemperament.Without stopping his writing:"And you, _citoyen_," he asked, "how are you?""Very well. Anything new?""Nothing, nothing. You can see,--we are all quiet here.""And the situation?""The situationis just the same."The situation was appalling. The finest army of the Republic blockadedin Mayence; Valenciennes besieged; Fontenay taken by the VendÃ©ens; Lyonsrebellious; the CÃ©vennes in insurrection, thefrontier open to theSpaniards; two-thirds of the Departments invaded or revolted; Parishelpless before the Austrian cannon, without money, without bread!FortunÃ© Trubert wrote on calmly. The Sections beinginstructed byresolution of the Commune to carry out the levy of twelve thousand menfor La VendÃ©e, he was drawing up directions relating to the enrolmentand arming of the contingent which the "Pont-Neuf,"erstwhile "HenriIV," was to supply. All the muskets in store were to be handed over tothe men requisitioned for the front; the National Guard of the Sectionwould be armed with fowling-pieces and pikes."I have broughtyou here," said Gamelin, "the schedule of thechurch-bells to be sent to the Luxembourg to be converted into cannon."Ãvariste Gamelin, albeit he had not a penny, was inscribed among theactive members of theSection; the law accorded this privilege only tosuch citizens as were rich enough to pay a contribution equivalent inamount to three days' work, and demanded a ten days' contribution toqualify an elector for office. Butthe Section du Pont-Neuf, enamouredof equality and jealous of its independence, regarded as qualified bothfor the vote and for office every citizen who had paid out of his ownpocket for his National Guard's uniform.This was Gamelin's case, whowas an _active_ citizen of his Section and member of the MilitaryCommittee.FortunÃ© Trubert laid down his pen:"_Citoyen_ Ãvariste," he said, "I beg you to go to the Convention andaskthem to send us orders to dig up the floor of cellars, to wash thesoil and flag-stones and collect the saltpetre. It is not everything tohave guns, we must have gunpowder too."A little hunchback, a pen behind his ear anda bundle of papers in hishand, entered the erstwhile sacristy. It was the _citoyen_ Beauvisage,of the Committee of Surveillance."_Citoyens_," he announced, "we have bad news: Custine has evacuatedLandau.""Custineis a traitor!" cried Gamelin."He shall be guillotined," said Beauvisage.Trubert, in his rather breathless voice, expressed himself with hishabitual calmness:"The Convention has not instituted a Committee of Public Safetyfor fun.It will enquire into Custine's conduct. Incompetent or traitor, he willbe superseded by a General resolved to win the victory,--and _Ã§a ira!_"He turned over a heap of papers, scrutinizing them with his tiredeyes:"That our soldiers may do their duty with a quiet mind and stout heart,they must be assured that the lot of those they leave behind at home issafeguarded. If you are of the same opinion, _citoyen_ Gamelin, youwilljoin me in demanding, at the next assembly, that the Committee ofBenevolence concert measures with the Military Committee to succour thefamilies that are in indigence and have a relative at the front."He smiledand hummed to himself: "_Ãa ira! Ã§a ira!..._"Working twelve and fourteen hours a day at his table of unpainted dealfor the defence of the fatherland in peril, this humble Secretary of theSectional Committee couldsee no disproportion between the immensity ofthe task and the meagreness of his means for performing it, so filledwas he with a sense of the unity in a common effort between himself andall other patriots, sointimately did he feel himself one with theNation at large, so merged was his individual life in the life of agreat People. He was of the sort who combine enthusiasm withlong-suffering, who, after each check, set aboutorganizing the victorythat is impossible, but is bound to come. And verily they _must_ win theday. These men of no account, who had destroyed Royalty and upset theold order of things, this Trubert, a pennilessoptician, this ÃvaristeGamelin, an unknown dauber, could expect no mercy from their enemies.They had no choice save between victory and death. Hence both theirfervour and their serenity.IIQuitting the Barnabites,Ãvariste Gamelin set off in the direction ofthe Place Dauphine, now renamed the Place de Thionville in honour of acity that had shown itself impregnable.Situated in the busiest quarter of Paris, the _Place_ had longlost thefine stateliness it had worn a hundred years ago; the mansions formingits three sides, built in the days of Henri IV in one uniform style, ofred brick with white stone dressings, to lodgesplendour-lovingmagistrates, had had their imposing roofs of slate removed to make wayfor two or three wretched storeys of lath and plaster or had even beendemolished altogether and replaced by shabbywhitewashed houses, and nowdisplayed only a series of irregular, poverty-stricken, squalid fronts,pierced with countless narrow, unevenly spaced windows enlivened withflowers in pots, birdcages, and rags hanging outto dry. These wereoccupied by a swarm of artisans, jewellers, metal-workers, clockmakers,opticians, printers, laundresses, sempstresses, milliners, and a fewgrey-beard lawyers who had not been swept away in thestorm ofrevolution along with the King's courts.It was morning and springtime. Golden sunbeams, intoxicating as newwine, played on the walls and flashed gaily in at garret casements.Every sash of every window wasthrown open, showing the housewives'frowsy heads peeping out. The Clerk of the Revolutionary Tribunal, whohad just left his house on his way to Court, distributed amicable tapson the cheeks of the children playingunder the trees. From thePont-Neuf came the crier's voice denouncing the treason of the infamousDumouriez.Ãvariste Gamelin lived in a house on the side towards the Quai del'Horloge, a house that dated from HenriIV and would still havepreserved a not unhandsome appearance but for a mean tiled attic thathad been added on to heighten the building under the last but one of the_tyrants_. To adapt the lodging of some erstwhiledignitary of the_Parlement_ to the exigencies of the bourgeois and artisan householdsthat formed its present denizens, endless partitions and false floorshad been run up. This was why the _citoyen_ Remacle, conciergeandjobbing tailor, perched in a sort of 'tween-decks, as low ceilinged asit was confined in area. Here he could be seen through the glass doorsitting cross-legged on his work-bench, his bowed back within an inch ofthefloor above, stitching away at a National Guard's uniform, while the_citoyenne_ Remacle, whose cooking stove boasted no chimney but the wellof the staircase, poisoned the other tenants with the fumes ofherstew-pots and frying-pans, and their little girl JosÃ©phine, her facesmudged with treacle and looking as pretty as an angel, played on thethreshold with Mouton, the joiner's dog. The _citoyenne_, whose heartwas ascapacious as her ample bosom and broad back, was reputed tobestow her favours on her neighbour the _citoyen_ Dupont senior, who wasone of the twelve constituting the Committee of Surveillance. At anyrate herhusband had his strong suspicions, and from morning to nightthe house resounded with the racket of the alternate squabbles andreconciliations of the pair. The upper floors were occupied by the_citoyen_ Chaperon,gold and silver-smith, who had his shop on the Quaide l'Horloge, by a health officer, an attorney, a goldbeater, andseveral employÃ©s at the Palais de Justice.Ãvariste Gamelin climbed the old-fashioned staircase asfar as thefourth and last storey, where he had his studio together with a bedroomfor his mother. At this point ended the wooden stairs laid with tilesthat took the place of the grand stairway of the more importantfloors.A ladder clamped to the wall led to a cock-loft, from which at thatmoment emerged a stout man with a handsome, florid, rosy-cheeked face,climbing painfully down with an enormous package clasped in hisarms,yet humming gaily to himself: _J'ai perdu mon serviteur_.Breaking off his song, he wished a polite good-day to Gamelin, whoreturned him a fraternal greeting and helped him down with his parcel,for which the oldman thanked him."There," said he, shouldering his burden again, "you have a batch ofdancing-dolls which I am going to deliver straight away to atoy-merchant in the Rue de la Loi. There is a whole tribe of theminside;I am their creator; they have received of me a perishable body,exempt from joys and sufferings. I have not given them the gift ofthought, for I am a benevolent God."It was the _citoyen_ Brotteaux, once farmer oftaxes and _ci-devant_noble; his father, having made a fortune in these transactions, hadbought himself an office conferring a title on the possessor. In thegood old times Maurice Brotteaux had called himself Monsieurdes Ilettesand used to give elegant suppers which the fair Madame de Rochemaure,wife of a King's _procureur_, enlivened with her bright glances,--afinished gentlewoman whose loyal fidelity was never impugned solong asthe Revolution left Maurice Brotteaux in possession of his offices andemoluments, his hÃ´tel, his estates and his noble name. The Revolutionswept them all away. He made his living by painting portraits underthearchways of doors, making pancakes and fritters on the Quai de laMÃ©gisserie, composing speeches for the representatives of the people andgiving dancing lessons to the young _citoyennes_. At the present time,inhis garret into which you climbed by a ladder and where a man couldnot stand upright, Maurice Brotteaux, the proud owner of a glue-pot, aball of twine, a box of water-colours and sundry clippings ofpaper,manufactured dancing-dolls which he sold to wholesale toy-dealers, whoresold them to the pedlars who hawked them up and down theChamps-ÃlysÃ©es at the end of a pole,--glittering magnets to drawthelittle ones' eyes. Amidst the calamities of the State and the disasterthat overwhelmed himself, he preserved an unruffled spirit, reading forthe refreshment of his mind in his Lucretius, which he carried withhimwherever he went in the gaping pocket of his plum-coloured surtout.Ãvariste Gamelin pushed open the door of his lodging. It offered noresistance, for his poverty spared him any trouble about lock and key;whenhis mother from force of habit shot the bolt, he would tell her:"Why, what's the good? Folks don't steal spiders'-webs,--nor mypictures, neither." In his workroom were piled, under a thick layer ofdust or with facesturned to the wall, the canvases of his studentyears,--when, as the fashion of the day was, he limned scenes ofgallantry, depicting with a sleek, timorous brush emptied quivers andbirds put to flight, risky pastimes andreveries of bliss, high-kiltedgoose-girls and shepherdesses with rose-wreathed bosoms.But it was not a genre that suited his temperament. His cold treatmentof such like scenes proved the painter's incurable purity ofheart.Amateurs were right: Gamelin had no gifts as an erotic artist. Nowadays,though he was still short of thirty, these subjects struck him as datingfrom an immemorial antiquity. He saw in them the degradationwrought byMonarchy, the shameful effects of the corruption of Courts. He blamedhimself for having practised so contemptible a style and prostituted hisgenius to the vile arts of slavery. Now, citizen of a free people,heoccupied his hand with bold charcoal sketches of Liberties, Rights ofMan, French Constitutions, Republican Virtues, the People as Herculesfelling the Hydra of Tyranny, throwing into each and all hiscompositions all thefire of his patriotism. Alas! he could not make aliving by it. The times were hard for artists. No doubt the fault didnot lie with the Convention, which was hurling its armies against thekings gathered on every frontier,which, proud, unmoved, determined inthe face of the coalesced powers of Europe, false and ruthless toitself, was rending its own bosom with its own hands, which was settingup terror as the order of the day,establishing for the punishment ofplotters a pitiless tribunal to whose devouring maw it was soon todeliver up its own members; but which through it all, with calm andthoughtful brow, the patroness of science andfriend of all thingsbeautiful, was reforming the calendar, instituting technical schools,decreeing competitions in painting and sculpture, founding prizes toencourage artists, organizing annual exhibitions, opening theMuseum ofthe Louvre, and, on the model of Athens and Rome, endowing with astately sublimity the celebration of National festivals and publicobsequies. But French Art, once so widely appreciated in England,andGermany, in Russia, in Poland, now found every outlet to foreign landsclosed. Amateurs of painting, dilettanti of the fine arts, greatnoblemen and financiers, were ruined, had emigrated or were in hiding.The menthe Revolution had enriched, peasants who had bought up Nationalproperties, speculators, army-contractors, gamesters of thePalais-Royal, durst not at present show their wealth, and did not care afig for pictures,either. It needed Regnault's fame or the youthfulGÃ©rard's cleverness to sell a canvas. Greuze, Fragonard, Houin werereduced to indigence. Prud'hon could barely earn bread for his wife andchildren by drawingsubjects which Copia reproduced in stippledengravings. The patriot painters Hennequin, Wicar, Topino-Lebrun werestarving. Gamelin, without means to meet the expenses of a picture, tohire a model or buy colours,abandoned his vast canvas of _The Tyrantpursued in the Infernal Regions by the Furies_, after barely sketchingin the main outlines. It blocked up half the studio with itshalf-finished, threatening shapes, greater thanlife-size, and its vastbrood of green snakes, each darting forth two sharp, forked tongues. Inthe foreground, to the left, could be discerned Charon in his boat, ahaggard, wild-looking figure,--a powerful and wellconceived design, butof the schools, schooly. There was far more of genius and less ofartificiality in a canvas of smaller dimensions, also unfinished, thathung in the best lighted corner of the studio. It was an Oresteswhomhis sister Electra was raising in her arms on his bed of pain. Themaiden was putting back with a moving tenderness the matted hair thathung over her brother's eyes. The head of the hero was tragic and fine,andyou could see a likeness in it to the painter's own countenance.Gamelin cast many a mournful look at this composition; sometimes hisfingers itched with the craving to be at work on it, and his arms wouldbe stretchedlongingly towards the boldly sketched figure of Electra, tofall back again helpless to his sides. The artist was burning withenthusiasm, his soul aspired to great achievements. But he had toexhaust his energy onpot-boilers which he executed indifferently,because he was bound to please the taste of the vulgar and also becausehe had no skill to impress trivial things with the seal of genius. Hedrew little allegorical compositionswhich his comrade Desmahis engravedcleverly enough in black or in colours and which were bought at a lowfigure by a print-dealer in the Rue HonorÃ©, the _citoyen_ Blaise. Butthe trade was going from bad to worse,