ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Laodicean, by Thomas HardyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: A LaodiceanAuthor: Thomas HardyPosting Date: February 9, 2009 [EBook #3258]Release Date: June, 2002Language: English***START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LAODICEAN ***Produced by Les BowlerA LAODICEAN: A STORY OF TO-DAYBy ThomasHardyCONTENTS.   PREFACE                                          CHAPTERS   BOOK THE FIRST.   GEORGE SOMERSET.               I - XV.   BOOK THE SECOND.  DAREAND HAVILL.               I - VII.   BOOK THE THIRD.   DE STANCY.                     I - XI.   BOOK THE FOURTH.  SOMERSET, DARE, AND DE STANCY. I - V.   BOOKTHE FIFTH.   DE STANCY AND PAULA.           I - XIV.   BOOK THE SIXTH.   PAULA.                         I - V.PREFACE.The changing of the old order in countrymanors and mansions may beslow or sudden, may have many issues romantic or otherwise, its romanticissues being not necessarily restricted to a change backto the originalorder; though this admissible instance appears to have been the onlyromance formerly recognized by novelists as possible in the case.Whether thefollowing production be a picture of other possibilities ornot, its incidents may be taken to be fairly well supported by evidenceevery day forthcoming in mostcounties.The writing of the tale was rendered memorable to two persons, at least,by a tedious illness of five months that laid hold of the author soonafter thestory was begun in a well-known magazine; during whichperiod the narrative had to be strenuously continued by dictation to apredetermined cheerful ending.Assome of these novels of Wessex life address themselves moreespecially to readers into whose souls the iron has entered, and whoseyears have less pleasure inthem now than heretofore, so "A Laodicean"may perhaps help to while away an idle afternoon of the comfortable oneswhose lines have fallen to them in pleasantplaces; above all, of thatlarge and happy section of the reading public which has not yet reachedripeness of years; those to whom marriage is the pilgrim'sEternal City,and not a milestone on the way. T.H.January 1896.BOOK THE FIRST. GEORGE SOMERSET.I.The sun blazed down and down, till it was withinhalf-an-hour of itssetting; but the sketcher still lingered at his occupation of measuringand copying the chevroned doorway--a bold and quaint example ofatransitional style of architecture, which formed the tower entrance toan English village church. The graveyard being quite open on its westernside, thetweed-clad figure of the young draughtsman, and the tall massof antique masonry which rose above him to a battlemented parapet,were fired to a greatbrightness by the solar rays, that crossed theneighbouring mead like a warp of gold threads, in whose mazes groups ofequally lustrous gnats danced and wailedincessantly.He was so absorbed in his pursuit that he did not mark the brilliantchromatic effect of which he composed the central feature, till it wasbrought hometo his intelligence by the warmth of the moulded stoneworkunder his touch when measuring; which led him at length to turn his headand gaze on its cause.Thereare few in whom the sight of a sunset does not beget as muchmeditative melancholy as contemplative pleasure, the human decline anddeath that it illustratesbeing too obvious to escape the notice ofthe simplest observer. The sketcher, as if he had been brought to thisreflection many hundreds of times before by thesame spectacle, showedthat he did not wish to pursue it just now, by turning away his faceafter a few moments, to resume his architectural studies.He took hismeasurements carefully, and as if he reverenced the oldworkers whose trick he was endeavouring to acquire six hundred yearsafter the original performance hadceased and the performers passed intothe unseen. By means of a strip of lead called a leaden tape, whichhe pressed around and into the fillets and hollows withhis finger andthumb, he transferred the exact contour of each moulding to his drawing,that lay on a sketching-stool a few feet distant; where were alsoasketching-block, a small T-square, a bow-pencil, and other mathematicalinstruments. When he had marked down the line thus fixed, he returned tothe doorwayto copy another as before.It being the month of August, when the pale face of the townsman and thestranger is to be seen among the brown skins of remotestuplanders,not only in England, but throughout the temperate zone, few of thehomeward-bound labourers paused to notice him further than by amomentary turnof the head. They had beheld such gentlemen before, notexactly measuring the church so accurately as this one seemed to bedoing, but painting it from adistance, or at least walking round themouldy pile. At the same time the present visitor, even exteriorly, wasnot altogether commonplace. His features weregood, his eyes of the darkdeep sort called eloquent by the sex that ought to know, and with thatray of light in them which announces a heart susceptible tobeauty ofall kinds,--in woman, in art, and in inanimate nature. Though hewould have been broadly characterized as a young man, his face borecontradictorytestimonies to his precise age. This was conceivablyowing to a too dominant speculative activity in him, which, while ithad preserved the emotional side of hisconstitution, and with it thesignificant flexuousness of mouth and chin, had played upon his foreheadand temples till, at weary moments, they exhibited sometraces of beingover-exercised. A youthfulness about the mobile features, a matureforehead--though not exactly what the world has been familiar within pastages--is now growing common; and with the advance of juvenileintrospection it probably must grow commoner still. Briefly, he had moreof the beauty--if beautyit ought to be called--of the future human typethan of the past; but not so much as to make him other than a nice youngman.His build was somewhat slender andtall; his complexion, though a littlebrowned by recent exposure, was that of a man who spent much of his timeindoors. Of beard he had but small show, thoughhe was as innocent asa Nazarite of the use of the razor; but he possessed a moustacheall-sufficient to hide the subtleties of his mouth, which could thusbetremulous at tender moments without provoking inconvenient criticism.Owing to his situation on high ground, open to the west, he remainedenveloped in thelingering aureate haze till a time when the easternpart of the churchyard was in obscurity, and damp with rising dew.When it was too dark to sketch further hepacked up his drawing, and,beckoning to a lad who had been idling by the gate, directed him tocarry the stool and implements to a roadside inn which he named,lying amile or two ahead. The draughtsman leisurely followed the lad out of thechurchyard, and along a lane in the direction signified.The spectacle of a summertraveller from London sketching mediaevaldetails in these neo-Pagan days, when a lull has come over the study ofEnglish Gothic architecture, through are-awakening to the art-forms oftimes that more nearly neighbour our own, is accounted for by the factthat George Somerset, son of the Academician of thatname, was a manof independent tastes and excursive instincts, who unconsciously, andperhaps unhappily, took greater pleasure in floating in lonely currentsofthought than with the general tide of opinion. When quite a lad, inthe days of the French Gothic mania which immediately succeeded to thegreat English-pointedrevival under Britton, Pugin, Rickman, Scott, andother mediaevalists, he had crept away from the fashion to admire whatwas good in Palladian and Renaissance.As soon as Jacobean, QueenAnne, and kindred accretions of decayed styles began to be popular, hepurchased such old-school works as Revett and Stuart,Chambers, and therest, and worked diligently at the Five Orders; till quite bewilderedon the question of style, he concluded that all styles were extinct, andwiththem all architecture as a living art. Somerset was not old enoughat that time to know that, in practice, art had at all times been asfull of shifts and compromisesas every other mundane thing; that idealperfection was never achieved by Greek, Goth, or Hebrew Jew, andnever would be; and thus he was thrown into a moodof disgust withhis profession, from which mood he was only delivered by recklesslyabandoning these studies and indulging in an old enthusiasm forpoeticalliterature. For two whole years he did nothing but write verse in everyconceivable metre, and on every conceivable subject, from Wordsworthiansonnetson the singing of his tea-kettle to epic fragments on the Fallof Empires. His discovery at the age of five-and-twenty that theseinspired works were not jumped atby the publishers with all theeagerness they deserved, coincided in point of time with a severe hintfrom his father that unless he went on with his legitimateprofession hemight have to look elsewhere than at home for an allowance. Mr. Somersetjunior then awoke to realities, became intently practical, rushed backtohis dusty drawing-boards, and worked up the styles anew, with a viewof regularly starting in practice on the first day of the followingJanuary.It is an old story,and perhaps only deserves the light tone in whichthe soaring of a young man into the empyrean, and his descent again, isalways narrated. But as has often beensaid, the light and the truth maybe on the side of the dreamer: a far wider view than the wise oneshave may be his at that recalcitrant time, and his reduction tocommonmeasure be nothing less than a tragic event. The operation calledlunging, in which a haltered colt is made to trot round and rounda horsebreaker whoholds the rope, till the beholder grows dizzy inlooking at them, is a very unhappy one for the animal concerned. Duringits progress the colt springs upward, acrossthe circle, stops, fliesover the turf with the velocity of a bird, and indulges in all sorts ofgraceful antics; but he always ends in one way--thanks to theknottedwhipcord--in a level trot round the lunger with the regularity of ahorizontal wheel, and in the loss for ever to his character of thebold contours which thefine hand of Nature gave it. Yet the process isconsidered to be the making of him.Whether Somerset became permanently made under the action of theinevitablelunge, or whether he lapsed into mere dabbling with theartistic side of his profession only, it would be premature to say; butat any rate it was his contrite returnto architecture as a calling thatsent him on the sketching excursion under notice. Feeling that somethingstill was wanting to round off his knowledge before hecould take hisprofessional line with confidence, he was led to remember that his ownnative Gothic was the one form of design that he had totally neglectedfromthe beginning, through its having greeted him with wearisomeiteration at the opening of his career. Now it had again returned tosilence; indeed--such is thesurprising instability of art 'principles'as they are facetiously called--it was just as likely as not to sinkinto the neglect and oblivion which had been its lot in


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse, by Beatrix PotterThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Tale of Mrs. TittlemouseAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: November 18, 2005 [EBook #17089]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSE ***Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Emmy and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net[Illustration: Mrs. Tittlemouse & Bees]THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSEBy BEATRIX POTTERAuthor of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit"etc.[Illustration: Mrs. Tittlemouse & Butterfly]FREDERICK WARNEFREDERICK WARNEPenguin Books Ltd, Harmondsworth, Middlesex, EnglandViking Penguin Inc.,40 West 23rd Street, New York, New York 10010, U.S.A.Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, AustraliaPenguin Books Canada Ltd, 2801 John Street,Markham, Ontario, Canada L3R 1B4Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New ZealandFirst published 1910This impression1985Universal Copyright Notice:Copyright Â© 1910 by Frederick Warne & Co.Copyright in all countries signatory to the Berne Convention          All rightsreserved. Without limiting the rights          under copyright reserved above, no part of this          publication may be reproduced, stored in or          introducedinto a retrieval system, or          transmitted, in any form or by any means          (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording          or otherwise), withoutthe prior written          permission of both the copyright owner and the          above publisher of this book.Printed and bound in Great Britain byWilliam ClowesLimited, Beccles and LondonNELLIE'SLITTLE BOOK[Illustration: Mrs. Tittlemouse at the Door]Once upon a time there was a wood-mouse, and her name wasMrs.Tittlemouse.She lived in a bank under a hedge.Such a funny house! There were yards and yards of sandy passages,leading to storerooms and nut-cellars andseed-cellars, all amongst theroots of the hedge.[Illustration: In the pantry][Illustration: In bed]There was a kitchen, a parlour, a pantry, and a larder.Also, therewas Mrs. Tittlemouse's bedroom, where she slept in a littlebox bed!Mrs. Tittlemouse was a most terribly tidy particular little mouse,always sweeping and dustingthe soft sandy floors.Sometimes a beetle lost its way in the passages."Shuh! shuh! little dirty feet!" said Mrs. Tittlemouse, clattering herdust-pan.[Illustration:Shooing a beetle][Illustration: A ladybird]And one day a little old woman ran up and down in a red spotty cloak."Your house is on fire, Mother Ladybird! Fly awayhome to yourchildren!"Another day, a big fat spider came in to shelter from the rain."Beg pardon, is this not Miss Muffet's?""Go away, you bold bad spider!Leaving ends of cobweb all over my niceclean house!"[Illustration: Spider][Illustration: Out the window]She bundled the spider out at a window.He let himselfdown the hedge with a long thin bit of string.Mrs. Tittlemouse went on her way to a distant storeroom, to fetchcherry-stones and thistle-down seed for dinner.Allalong the passage she sniffed, and looked at the floor."I smell a smell of honey; is it the cowslips outside, in the hedge? Iam sure I can see the marks of littledirty feet."[Illustration: Marks of little feet][Illustration: Babbitty Bumble]Suddenly round a corner, she met Babbitty Bumble--"Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz!"said the bumblebee.Mrs. Tittlemouse looked at her severely. She wished that she had abroom."Good-day, Babbitty Bumble; I should be glad to buy some beeswax. Butwhat areyou doing down here? Why do you always come in at a window, andsay Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz?" Mrs. Tittlemouse began to get cross."Zizz, Wizz, Wizzz!" repliedBabbitty Bumble in a peevish squeak. Shesidled down a passage, and disappeared into a storeroom which had beenused for acorns.Mrs. Tittlemouse had eatenthe acorns before Christmas; the storeroomought to have been empty.But it was full of untidy dry moss.[Illustration: Full of moss][Illustration: Bees nest]Mrs.Tittlemouse began to pull out the moss. Three or four other beesput their heads out, and buzzed fiercely."I am not in the habit of letting lodgings; this is anintrusion!" saidMrs. Tittlemouse. "I will have them turned out--" "Buzz! Buzz!Buzzz!"--"I wonder who would help me?" "Bizz, Wizz, Wizzz!"--"I will not have Mr.Jackson; he never wipes his feet."Mrs. Tittlemouse decided to leave the bees till after dinner.When she got back to the parlour, she heard some one coughing in afatvoice; and there sat Mr. Jackson himself!He was sitting all over a small rocking-chair, twiddling his thumbs andsmiling, with his feet on the fender.He lived in adrain below the hedge, in a very dirty wet ditch.[Illustration: Mr. Jackson][Illustration: Sitting and dripping]"How do you do, Mr. Jackson? Deary me, you havegot very wet!""Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! I'll sit awhile anddry myself," said Mr. Jackson.He sat and smiled, and the water dripped offhis coat tails. Mrs.Tittlemouse went round with a mop.He sat such a while that he had to be asked if he would take somedinner?First she offered himcherry-stones. "Thank you, thank you, Mrs.Tittlemouse! No teeth, no teeth, no teeth!" said Mr. Jackson.He opened his mouth most unnecessarily wide; hecertainly had not atooth in his head.[Illustration: Feeding Mr. Jackson][Illustration: Thistledown]Then she offered him thistle-down seed--"Tiddly, widdly, widdly!Pouff,pouff, puff!" said Mr. Jackson. He blew the thistle-down all over theroom."Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! Now what Ireally--_really_should like--would be a little dish of honey!""I am afraid I have not got any, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Tittlemouse."Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse!" saidthe smiling Mr.Jackson, "I can _smell_ it; that is why I came to call."Mr. Jackson rose ponderously from the table, and began to look into thecupboards.Mrs.Tittlemouse followed him with a dish-cloth, to wipe his large wetfootmarks off the parlour floor.[Illustration: Wiping up footmarks][Illustration: Walking down thepassage]When he had convinced himself that there was no honey in the cupboards,he began to walk down the passage."Indeed, indeed, you will stick fast, Mr.Jackson!""Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse!"First he squeezed into the pantry."Tiddly, widdly, widdly? no honey? no honey, Mrs. Tittlemouse?"There werethree creepy-crawly people hiding in the plate-rack. Two ofthem got away; but the littlest one he caught.[Illustration: Creepy-crawly people][Illustration:Butterfly tasting the sugar]Then he squeezed into the larder. Miss Butterfly was tasting the sugar;but she flew away out of the window."Tiddly, widdly, widdly,Mrs. Tittlemouse; you seem to have plenty ofvisitors!""And without any invitation!" said Mrs. Thomasina Tittlemouse.They went along the sandy passage--"Tiddlywiddly--" "Buzz! Wizz! Wizz!"He met Babbitty round a corner, and snapped her up, and put her downagain."I do not like bumble bees. They are all over bristles,"said Mr.Jackson, wiping his mouth with his coat-sleeve."Get out, you nasty old toad!" shrieked Babbitty Bumble."I shall go distracted!" scolded Mrs.Tittlemouse.[Illustration: Confronting the Bee][Illustration: Shut into the nut-cellar]She shut herself up in the nut-cellar while Mr. Jackson pulled outthebees-nest. He seemed to have no objection to stings.When Mrs. Tittlemouse ventured to come out--everybody had gone away.But the untidiness wassomething dreadful--"Never did I see such amess--smears of honey; and moss, and thistledown--and marks of big andlittle dirty feet--all over my nice cleanhouse!"She gathered up the moss and the remains of the beeswax.Then she went out and fetched some twigs, to partly close up the frontdoor."I will make it toosmall for Mr. Jackson!"[Illustration: Closing up the front door][Illustration: Too tired]She fetched soft soap, and flannel, and a new scrubbing brush fromthestoreroom. But she was too tired to do any more. First she fell asleepin her chair, and then she went to bed."Will it ever be tidy again?" said poor Mrs.Tittlemouse.Next morning she got up very early and began a spring cleaning whichlasted a fortnight.She swept, and scrubbed, and dusted; and she rubbed upthe furniturewith beeswax, and polished her little tin spoons.[Illustration: Polishing]When it was all beautifully neat and clean, she gave a party to fiveother littlemice, without Mr. Jackson.He smelt the party and came up the bank, but he could not squeeze in atthe door.[Illustration: The party][Illustration: Honey-dewthrough the window]So they handed him out acorn-cupfuls of honey-dew through the window,and he was not at all offended.He sat outside in the sun, andsaid--"Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Your verygood health, Mrs. Tittlemouse!"THE END       *       *       *       *       *Transcriber's Note: Punctuation normalized andcaptions added toillustrations.End of Project Gutenberg's The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALEOF MRS. TITTLEMOUSE ******** This file should be named 17089-8.txt or 17089-8.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be foundin:        http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/0/8/17089/Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Emmy and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.netUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions meansthat noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission andwithout paying copyright royalties.  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ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Abbe Mouretâs Transgression, by Emile ZolaThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Abbe Mouretâs Transgression       La Faute De Lâabbe MouretAuthor: Emile ZolaEditor: Ernest Alfred VizetellyRelease Date:November 28, 2004 [EBook #14200]Posting Date: May 29, 2009Last Updated: September 5, 2016Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ABBE MOURETâS TRANSGRESSION ***Produced by Dagny; and David WidgerABBE MOURETâS TRANSGRESSIONByEmile ZolaEdited with an Introduction by Ernest Alfred VizetellyINTRODUCTIONâLA FAUTE DE LâABBE MOURETâ was, with respect to the dateofpublication, the fourth volume of M. Zolaâs âRougon-Macquartâ series;but in the amended and final scheme of that great literary undertaking,itoccupies the ninth place. It proceeds from the sixth volume of theseries, âThe Conquest of Plassans;â which is followed by the two worksthat deal withthe career of Octave Mouret, Abbe Serge Mouretâs elderbrother. In âThe Conquest of Plassans,â Serge and his half-wittedsister, Desiree, are seen inchildhood at their home in Plassans, whichis wrecked by the doings of a certain Abbe Faujas and his relatives.Serge Mouret grows up, is called by an instinctivevocation to thepriesthood, and becomes parish priest of Les Artaud, a well-nigh paganhamlet in one of those bare, burning stretches of country withwhichProvence abounds. And here it is that âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouretâ opensin the old ruinous church, perched upon a hillock in full view ofthesqualid village, the arid fields, and the great belts of rock which shutin the landscape all around.There are two elements in this remarkable story, which, fromthestandpoint of literary style, has never been excelled by anything thatM. Zola has since written; and one may glance at it therefore from twopoints of view.Taking it under its sociological and religious aspect,it will be found to be an indirect indictment of the celibacy of thepriesthood; that celibacy, contrary toNatureâs fundamental law, whichassuredly has largely influenced the destinies of the Roman CatholicChurch. To that celibacy, and to all the evils that havesprang fromit, may be ascribed much of the irreligion current in France to-day.The periodical reports on criminality issued by the French Ministers ofJustice sincethe foundation of the Republic in 1871, supply materialsfor a most formidable indictment of that vow of perpetual chastity whichRome exacts from her clergy.Nowadays it is undoubtedly too late forRome to go back upon that vow and thereby transform the whole of hersacerdotal organisation; but, perhaps, had shedone so in past times,before the spirit of inquiry and free examination came into being, shemight have assured herself many more centuries of supremacy thanhavefallen to her lot. But she has ever sought to dissociate the law of theDivinity from the law of Nature, as though indeed the latter were butthe invention of theFiend.Abbe Mouret, M. Zolaâs hero, finds himself placed between the law ofthe Divinity and the law of Nature: and the struggle waged within him bythose twoforces is a terrible one. That which training has implantedin his mind proves the stronger, and, so far as the canons of the Churchcan warrant it, he saves his soul.But the problem is not quite franklyput by M. Zola; for if Abbe Mouret transgresses he does so unwittingly,at a time when he is unconscious of his priesthood andhas no memory ofany vow. When the truth flashes upon him he is horrified with himself,and forthwith returns to the Church. A further struggle betweenthecontending forces then certainly ensues, and ends in the final victoryof the Church. But it must at least be said that in the lapses whichoccur in real life amongthe Roman priesthood, the circumstances arealtogether different from those which M. Zola has selected for hisstory.The truth is that in âLa Faute delâAbbe Mouret,â betwixt lifelikeglimpses of French rural life, the author transports us to a realm ofpoesy and imagination. This is, indeed, so true that hehas introducedinto his work all the ideas on which he had based an early unfinishedpoem called âGenesis.â He carries us to an enchanted garden,theParadou--a name which one need hardly say is Provencal forParadise*--and there Serge Mouret, on recovering from brain fever,becomes, as it were, a new Adamby the side of a new Eve, the fair andwinsome Albine. All this part of the book, then, is poetry in prose.The author has remembered the ties which link Rousseauto the realisticschool of fiction, and, as in the pages of Jean-Jacques, trees, springs,mountains, rocks, and flowers become animated beings and claim theirplacein the worldâs mechanism. One may indeed go back far beyondRousseau, even to Lucretius himself; for more than once we areirresistibly reminded ofLucretian scenes, above which through M. Zolaâspages there seems to hover the pronouncement of Sophocles:     No ordinance of man shall override     Thesettled laws of Nature and of God;     Not written these in pages of a book,     Nor were they framed to-day, nor yesterday;     We know not whence they are; butthis we know,     That they from all eternity have been,     And shall to all eternity endure.  * There is a village called Paradou in Provence, between    Les Bauxand Arles.And if we pass to the young pair whose duo of love is sung amidst thevaried voices of creation, we are irresistibly reminded of the Pauland Virginia ofSt. Pierre, and the Daphnis and Chloe of Longus. Besidethem, in their marvellous garden, lingers a memory too of Manon andDes Grieux, with a suggestion ofLauzun and a glimpse of the art ofFragonard. All combine, all contribute--from the great classics to theeighteenth century _petits maitres_--to build up a story ofloveâs risein the human breast in answer to Natureâs promptings.M. Zola wrote âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouretâ one summer under the treesofhis garden, mindful the while of gardens that he had known in childhood:the flowery expanse which had stretched before his grandmotherâs homeatPont-au-Beraud and the wild estate of Galice, between Roquefavour andAix-en-Provence, through which he had roamed as a lad with friends thenboys likehimself: Professor Baille and Cezanne, the painter. And intohis description of the wondrous Paradou he has put all his remembranceof the gardens and woods ofProvence, where many a plant and flowerthrive with a luxuriance unknown to England. True, in order to refreshhis memory and avoid mistakes, he consultedvarious horticulturalmanuals whilst he was writing; of which circumstance captious criticshave readily laid hold, to proclaim that the description of the Paradouis amere floristâs catalogue.But it is nothing of the kind. The florist who might dare to offersuch a catalogue to the public would be speedily assailed by allthehorticultural journalists of England and all the customers of villadom.For M. Zola avails himself of a poetâs license to crowd marvel uponmarvel, toexaggerate natureâs forces, to transform the tiniest bloomsinto giant examples of efflorescence, and to mingle even the seasonsone with the other. But allthis was premeditated; there was a picturebefore his mindâs eye, and that picture he sought to trace with his pen,regardless of all possible objections. It isthe poetâs privilege todo this and even to be admired for it. It would be easy for some leanedbotanist, some expert zoologist, to demolish Milton from thestandpointof their respective sciences, but it would be absurd to do so. We ask ofthe poet the flowers of his imagination, and the further he carries usfrom thesordid realities, the limited possibilities of life, the moreare we grateful to him.And M. Zolaâs Paradou is a flight of fancy, even as its mistress, thefair, loving,guileless Albine, whose smiles and whose tears alike goto our hearts, is the daughter of imagination. She is a flower--the veryflower of lifeâs youth--in themidst of all the blossoms of hergarden. She unfolds to life and to love even as they unfold; she lovesrapturously even as they do under the sun and the azure;and she dieswith them when the sunâs caress is gone and the chill of winter hasfallen. At the thought of her, one instinctively remembersMalherbeâsâOde A Du Perrier:â     She to this earth belonged, where beauty fast          To direst fate is borne:     A rose, she lasted, as the roseslast,          Only for one brief morn.French painters have made subjects of many episodes in M. Zolaâsworks, but none has been more popular with them thanAlbineâs pathetic,perfumed death amidst the flowers. I know several paintings of greatmerit which that touching incident has inspired.Albine, if more or lessunreal, a phantasm, the spirit as it were ofNature incarnate in womanhood, is none the less the most delightful ofM. Zolaâs heroines. She smiles at us like thevision of perfect beautyand perfect love which rises before us when our hearts are yet young andfull of illusions. She is the ideal, the very quintessence ofwoman.In Serge Mouret, her lover, we find a man who, in more than one respect,recalls M. Zolaâs later hero, the Abbe Froment of âLourdesâ andâRome.âHe has the same loving, yearning nature; he is born--absolutely likeAbbe Froment--of an unbelieving father and a mother of mystical mind.Butunlike Froment he cannot shake off the shackles of his priesthood.Reborn to life after his dangerous illness, he relapses into thereligion of death, the religionwhich regards life as impurity, whichdenies Natureâs laws, and so often wrecks human existence, as ifindeed that had been the Divine purpose in setting manupon earth. Hisstruggles suggest various passages in âLourdesâ and âRome.â In fact, inwriting those works, M. Zola must have had his earliercreation inmind. There are passages in âLa Faute de lâAbbe Mouretâ culled from thewritings of the Spanish Jesuit Fathers and the âImitationâof Thomasa Kempis that recur almost word for word in the Trilogy of the ThreeCities. Some might regard this as evidence of the limitation of M.Zolaâspowers, but I think differently. I consider that he has in bothinstances designedly taken the same type of priest in order to show howhe may live under variedcircumstances; for in the earlier instancehe has led him to one goal, and in the later one to another. And thepassages of prayer, entreaty, and spiritual conflictsimply recurbecause they are germane, even necessary, to the subject in both cases.Of the minor characters that figure in âLa Faute de lâAbbeMouretâ thechief thing to be said is that they are lifelike. If Serge is almostwholly spiritual, if Albine is the daughter of poesy, they, the others,are of the earthearthy. As a result of their appearance on the scene,there are some powerful contrasting passages in the book. Archangias,the coarse and brutal ChristianBrother who serves as a foil to AbbeMouret; La Teuse, the priestâs garrulous old housekeeper; Desiree, hisâinnocentâ sister, a grown woman with the


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                             CELESTE AND JESSE FOREVER                                                             Writtenby                                                   Rashida Jones & WillMcCormack                                                                                5.01.11          1MONTAGE OVER THE OPENING CREDITS TO SUNNY LEVINE'S "LOVE 1                          RHINO":                                    A progression of imagesof CELESTE and JESSE, ages 18 to 30.           Visual media evolves with them throughout the years.                                                            A1 POLAROIDSOF HIGH SCHOOL MOMENTS: A1           Celeste is a chronic overachiever and Jesse is sweet, goofy           and funny. He makes her laugh. They are bestfriends but it's           clear that Jesse wishes they were more.           Close-up of their hands crossed, making "C" and "J" shapes.           Celeste and her footballplayer boyfriend, Mike, kissing.           Jesse watches enviously from the sidelines, holding Mike's           helmet.                                                            B1DIPOSABLE CAMERA PHOTOS: B1           They go to college together, study together, drink together.           They are still best friends.           Junior year,Celeste with Saleem, her hot, black militant           boyfriend. They kiss passionately.           A moment later, Jesse poses reluctantly with the


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                                  FLASH GORDON                                   Written by                                Lorenzo SempleJr.                                   FADE IN:                                   EXT. WIDE AFRICAN LANDSCAPE - MORNING                                   At first onlydarkness, then the rising sun paints in an          endless savanna from horizon to horizon. We hear savage drums          beating in the distance coming from someunknown place.                                   The sun clears the horizon. Suddenly it changes amazingly:          the white disc goes through a rapid series ofcolor          transitions, from yellow to green to purple to an incredible          BLOOD RED. From it shoots a RED LIGHTNING BOLT.                                   The skyechoes with THUNDER.                                   We hear a HOWLING ethereal wind, but not a twig of the brush          stirs as bolt after bolt of RED LIGHTNINGrips the sky, with          each one a TITLE or CREDIT appearing.                                   Under FINAL CREDIT snow is beginning to fall on theburning          blood-red savanna.                                   EXT. PLANE IN FLIGHT - DAY                                   I's a Twin Otter with the logo of somecommuter airline. It          buzzes along over pleasant countryside, through a sky that's          almost unnaturally serene and filled with fleecy whiteclouds.                                   INT. PLANE IN FLIGHT - DAY                                   There are just two passengers in the cabin. One is DALEARDEN,          a great looking dark-haired girl sitting by herself and          reading a book entitled "KARATE FOR THE SINGLE GIRL.... A          Guide to Survival In


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Stories from Pentamerone, by Giambattista BasileThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: Stories from PentameroneAuthor: Giambattista BasilePosting Date: March 1, 2009 [EBook #2198]Release Date: May, 2000Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES FROM PENTAMERONE ***Produced by Batsy Bybell.  HTML version by Al Haines.Stories fromPentameronebyGiambattista BasileNOTEThe collection of folk-tales known as Il Pentamerone was firstpublished at Naples and in the Neopolitan dialect, byGiambattistaBasile, Conte di Torrone, who is believed to have collected themchiefly in Crete and Venice, and to have died about the year1637.CONTENTS  1.  How the Tales came to be told  2.  The Myrtle  3.  Peruonto  4.  Vardiello  5.  The Flea  6.  Cenerentola  7.  TheMerchant  8.  Goat-Face  9.  The Enchanted Doe 10. Parsley 11. The Three Sisters 12. Violet 13. Pippo 14. The Serpent 15. The She-Bear 16. The Dove 17.Cannetella 18. Corvetto 19. The Booby 20. The Stone in the Cock's Head 21. The Three Enchanted Princes 22. The Dragon 23. The Two Cakes 24. The SevenDoves 25. The Raven 26. The Months 27. Pintosmalto 28. The Golden Root 29. Sun, Moon, and Talia 30. Nennillo and Nennella 31. The Three Citrons 32.ConclusionIHOW THE TALES CAME TO BE TOLDIt is an old saying, that he who seeks what he should not, finds whathe would not. Every one has heard of the apewho, in trying to pull onhis boots, was caught by the foot. And it happened in like manner to awretched slave, who, although she never had shoes to her feet,wantedto wear a crown on her head. But the straight road is the best; and,sooner or later, a day comes which settles all accounts. At last,having by evil meansusurped what belonged to another, she fell to theground; and the higher she had mounted, the greater was her fall--asyou shall see.Once upon a time the King ofWoody Valley had a daughter named Zoza,who was never seen to laugh. The unhappy father, who had no othercomfort in life but this only daughter, left nothinguntried to driveaway her melancholy. So he sent for folks who walk on stilts, fellowswho jump through hoops, for boxers, for conjurers, for jugglers whoperformsleight-of-hand tricks, for strong men, for dancing dogs, forleaping clowns, for the donkey that drinks out of a tumbler--in short,he tried first one thing and thenanother to make her laugh. But allwas time lost, for nothing could bring a smile to her lips.So at length the poor father, at wit's end, and to make a lasttrial,ordered a large fountain of oil to be set in front of the palace gates,thinking to himself that when the oil ran down the street, along whichthe people passedlike a troop of ants, they would be obliged, in ordernot to soil their clothes, to skip like grasshoppers, leap like goats,and run like hares; while one would gopicking and choosing his way,and another go creeping along the wall. In short, he hoped thatsomething might come to pass to make his daughter laugh.So thefountain was made; and as Zoza was one day standing at thewindow, grave and demure, and looking as sour as vinegar, there came bychance an old woman,who, soaking up the oil with a sponge, began tofill a little pitcher which she had brought with her. And as she waslabouring hard at this ingenious device, a youngpage of the courtpassing by threw a stone so exactly to a hair that he hit the pitcherand broke it to pieces. Whereupon the old woman, who had no hair onhertongue, turned to the page, full of wrath, and exclaimed, "Ah, youimpertinent young dog, you mule, you gallows-rope, you spindle-legs!Ill luck to you! Mayyou be pierced by a Catalan lance! May a thousandills befall you and something more to boot, you thief, you knave!"The lad, who had little beard and lessdiscretion, hearing this stringof abuse, repaid the old woman in her own coin, saying, "Have you done,you grandmother of witches, you old hag, youchild-strangler!"When the old woman heard these compliments she flew into such a ragethat, losing hold of the bridle and escaping from the stable ofpatience,she acted as if she were mad, cutting capers in the air andgrinning like an ape. At this strange spectacle Zoza burst into such afit of laughter that she well-nighfainted away. But when the old womansaw herself played this trick, she flew into a passion, and turning afierce look on Zoza she exclaimed: "May you never havethe least littlebit of a husband, unless you take the Prince of Round-Field."Upon hearing this, Zoza ordered the old woman to be called; and desiredto knowwhether, in her words, she had laid on her a curse, or had onlymeant to insult her. And the old woman answered, "Know then, that thePrince of whom I spoke is amost handsome creature, and is namedTaddeo, who, by the wicked spell of a fairy, having given the lasttouch to the picture of life, has been placed in a tomboutside thewalls of the city; and there is an inscription upon a stone, sayingthat whatever woman shall in three days fill with tears a pitcher thathangs there upona hook will bring the Prince to life and shall takehim for a husband. But as it is impossible for two human eyes to weepso much as to fill a pitcher that would holdhalf a barrel, I havewished you this wish in return for your scoffing and jeering at me. AndI pray that it may come to pass, to avenge the wrong you have doneme."So saying, she scuttled down the stairs, for fear of a beating.Zoza pondered over the words of the old woman, and after turning over ahundred thoughts inher mind, until her head was like a mill full ofdoubts, she was at last struck by a dart of the passion that blinds thejudgment and puts a spell on the reasoning ofman. She took a handfulof dollars from her father's coffers and left the palace, walking onand on, until she arrived at the castle of a fairy, to whomsheunburdened her heart. The fairy, out of pity for such a fair younggirl, who had two spurs to make her fall--little help and much love foran unknownobject--gave her a letter of recommendation to a sister ofhers, who was also a fairy. And this second fairy received her likewisewith great kindness; and on thefollowing morning, when Night commandsthe birds to proclaim that whoever has seen a flock of black shadowsgone astray shall be well rewarded, she gave her abeautiful walnut,saying, "Take this, my dear daughter, and keep it carefully; but neveropen it, but in time of the greatest need." And then she gave her alsoaletter, commending her to another sister.After journeying a long way, Zoza arrived at this fairy's castle, andwas received with the same affection. And the nextmorning this fairylikewise gave her a letter to another sister, together with a chestnut,cautioning her in the same manner. Then Zoza travelled on to thenextcastle, where she was received with a thousand caresses and given afilbert, which she was never to open, unless the greatest necessityobliged her. So sheset out upon her journey, and passed so manyforests and rivers, that at the end of seven years, just at the time ofday when the Sun, awakened by the coming ofthe cocks, has saddled hissteed to run his accustomed stages, she arrived almost lame atRound-Field.There, at the entrance to the city, she saw a marble tomb,at the footof a fountain, which was weeping tears of crystal at seeing itself shutup in a porphyry prison. And, lifting up the pitcher, she placed it inher lap andbegan to weep into it, imitating the fountain to make twolittle fountains of her eyes. And thus she continued without everraising her head from the mouth of thepitcher--until, at the end oftwo days, it was full within two inches of the top. But, being weariedwith so much weeping, she was unawares overtaken by sleep, andwasobliged to rest for an hour or so under the canopy of her eyes.Meanwhile a certain Slave, with the legs of a grasshopper, came, as shewas wont, to thefountain, to fill her water-cask. Now she knew themeaning of the fountain which was talked of everywhere; and when shesaw Zoza weeping so incessantly, andmaking two little streams from hereyes, she was always watching and spying until the pitcher should befull enough for her to add the last drops to it; and thus toleave Zozacheated of her hopes. Now, therefore, seeing Zoza asleep, she seizedher opportunity; and dexterously removing the pitcher from under Zoza,andplacing her own eyes over it, she filled it in four seconds. Buthardly was it full, when the Prince arose from the white marble shrine,as if awakened from a deepsleep, and embraced that mass of dark flesh,and carried her straightways to his palace; feasts and marvellousilluminations were made, and he took her for hiswife.When Zoza awoke and saw the pitcher gone, and her hopes with it, andthe shrine open, her heart grew so heavy that she was on the point ofunpacking thebales of her soul at the custom-house of Death. But, atlast, seeing that there was no help for her misfortune, and that shecould only blame her own eyes, whichhad served her so ill, she wenther way, step by step, into the city. And when she heard of the feastswhich the Prince had made, and the dainty creature he hadmarried, sheinstantly knew how all this mischief had come to pass; and said toherself, sighing, "Alas, two dark things have brought me to theground,--sleep anda black slave!" Then she took a fine house facingthe palace of the Prince; from whence, though she could not see theidol of her heart, she could at least look uponthe walls wherein whatshe sighed for was enclosed.But Taddeo, who was constantly flying like a bat round that black nightof a Slave, chanced to perceive Zozaand was entranced with her beauty.When the Slave saw this she was beside herself with rage, and vowedthat if Taddeo did not leave the window, she would killher baby whenit was born.Taddeo, who was anxiously desiring an heir, was afraid to offend hiswife and tore himself away from the sight of Zoza; who seeingthislittle balm for the sickness of her hopes taken away from her, knewnot, at first, what to do. But, recollecting the fairies' gifts, sheopened the walnut, and outof it hopped a little dwarf like a doll, themost graceful toy that was ever seen in the world. Then, seatinghimself upon the window, the dwarf began to sing withsuch a trill andgurgling, that he seemed a veritable king of the birds.The Slave, when she saw and heard this, was so enraptured that, callingTaddeo, she said,"Bring me the little fellow who is singing yonder, orI will kill the child when it is born." So the Prince, who allowed thisugly woman to put the saddle on his back,sent instantly to Zoza, toask if she would not sell the dwarf. Zoza answered she was not amerchant, but that he was welcome to it as a gift. So Taddeoacceptedthe offer, for he was anxious to keep his wife in good humour.Four days after this, Zoza opened the chestnut, when out came a henwith twelve littlechickens, all of pure gold, and, being placed on thewindow, the Slave saw them and took a vast fancy to them; and callingTaddeo, she showed him the beautifulsight, and again ordered him toprocure the hen and chickens for her. So Taddeo, who let himself becaught in the web, and become the sport of the ugly creature,


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wailing Asteroid, by Murray LeinsterThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostotherparts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project GutenbergLicense 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 whereyou are located before using this ebook.Title: The Wailing AsteroidAuthor: Murray LeinsterRelease Date: September 20, 2015 [EBook #50022]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WAILING ASTEROID ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net                         THE WAILING ASTEROID                          by Murray Leinster                           An AvonOriginal                          AVON BOOK DIVISION                        The Hearst Corporation                           959 Eighth Avenue                         New York 19, NewYorkCopyright, 1960, by Murray Leinster. Published by arrangement withthe author. Printed in the U.S.A.[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncoverany evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       *       *       *       *       *There was no life on the asteroid, but the miles of rock-hewncorridorsthrough which the earth party wandered left no doubt about the purposeof the asteroid.It was a mighty fortress, stocked with weapons of destructionbeyondman's power to understand.And yet there was no life here, nor had there been for untold centuries.What race had built this stronghold? Whatunimaginable power were theydefending against? Why was it abandoned? There was no answer, all wasdead.But--not quite all.For in a room above the tomb-likefortress a powerful transmitterbeamed its birdlike, fluting sounds toward earth. Near it, on a hugestar-map of the universe, with light-years measured by inches,ten tinyred sparks were moving, crawling inexorably toward the center.Moving, at many times the speed of light, with the acquired massof suns ... moving, on acourse that would pass through the solarsystem.The unknown aliens would not even see our sun explode from the forceof their passing, would not even noticethe tiny speck called Earth asit died....       *       *       *       *       *Chapter 1The signals from space began a little after midnight, local time, on aFriday. Theywere first picked up in the South Pacific, just westwardof the International Date Line. A satellite-watching station on anisland named Kalua was the first to receivethem, though nobody heardthe first four or five minutes. But it is certain that the very firstmessage was picked up and recorded by the monitor instruments.Thesatellite-tracking unit on Kalua was practically a duplicate ofall its fellows. There was the station itself with a vertical antennaoutside pointing at the stars. Therewere various lateral antennaeheld two feet above ground by concrete posts. In the instrument roomin the building a light burned over a desk, three or fourmonitorlights glowed dimly to indicate that the self-recording instrumentswere properly operating, and there was a multiple-channel tape recorderbuilt into thewall. Its twin tape reels turned sedately, winding abrown plastic ribbon from one to the other at a moderate pace.The staff man on duty had gone to theinstallation's kitchen for a cupof coffee. No sound originated in the room, unless one counted thefluttering of a piece of weighted-down paper on the desk.Outside,palm trees whispered and rustled their long fronds in the southeasttrade wind under a sky full of glittering stars. Beyond, there wasthe dull booming ofsurf upon the barrier reef of the island. But theinstruments made no sound. Only the tape reels moved.The signals began abruptly. They came out of a speakerand wereinstantly recorded. They were elfin and flutelike and musical. Theywere crisp and distinct. They did not form a melody, but nearly all thecomponents ofmelody were there. Pure musical notes, each with its ownpitch, all of different lengths, like quarter-notes and eighth-notesin music. The sounds needed onlyrhythm and arrangement to form aplaintive tune.Nothing happened. The sounds continued for something over a minute.They stopped long enough to seem tohave ended. Then they began again.When the staff man came back into the room with a coffee cup in hishand, he heard the flutings instantly. His jaw dropped.He said, "Whatthe hell?" and went to look at the instruments. He spilled some of hiscoffee when he saw their readings.The tracking dials said that the signalscame from a stationary sourcealmost directly overhead. If they were from a stationary source,no plane was transmitting them. Nor could they be coming fromanartificial satellite. A plane would move at a moderate pace across thesky. A satellite would move faster. Much faster. This source, accordingto the instruments,did not move at all.The staff man listened with a blank expression on his face. There wasbut one rational explanation, which he did not credit for an instant.Thereasonable answer would have been that somebody, somewhere, had puta satellite out into an orbit requiring twenty-four hours for a circuitof the earth, insteadof the ninety to one-hundred-twenty-four-minuteorbits of the satellites known to sweep around the world from westto east and pole to pole. But the piping,musical sounds were notthe sort of thing that modern physicists would have contrived tocarry information about cosmic-particle frequency, spacetemperature,micrometeorites, and the like.The signals stopped again, and again resumed. The staff man wasgalvanized into activity. He rushed to waken othermembers of theoutpost. When he got back, the signals continued for a minute andstopped altogether. But they were recorded on tape, with theinstrumentreadings that had been made during their duration. The staff man playedthe tape back for his companions.They felt as he did. These were signals fromspace where man had neverbeen. They had listened to the first message ever to reach mankind fromthe illimitable emptiness between the stars and planets. Manwas notalone. Man was no longer isolated. Man....The staff of the tracking station was very much upset. Most of themen were white-faced by the time the tapedmessage had been re-playedthrough to its end. They were frightened.Considering everything, they had every reason to be.The second pick-up was in Darjeeling,in northern India. The Indiangovernment was then passing through one of its periods of enthusiasticinterest in science. It had set up a satellite-observation postin aformer British cavalry stable on the outskirts of the town. The actinghead of the observing staff happened to hear the second broadcast toreach Earth. Itarrived some seventy-nine minutes after the firstreception, and it was picked up by two stations, Kalua and Darjeeling.The Darjeeling observer was incredulous atwhat he heard--fiverepetitions of the same sequence of flutelike notes. After eachpause--when it seemed that the signals had stopped before they actuallydidso--the reception was exactly the same as the one before. Itwas inconceivable that such a succession of sounds, lasting a fullminute, could be exactly repeated byany natural chain of events. Fiverepetitions were out of the question. The notes were signals. They werea communication which was repeated to be sure it wasreceived.The third broadcast was heard in Lebanon in addition to Kalua andDarjeeling. Reception in all three places was simultaneous. A signalfrom a nearbysatellite could not possibly have been picked up so fararound the Earth's curvature. The widening of the area of reception,too, proved that there was no newsatellite aloft with an orbit periodof exactly twenty-four hours, so that it hung motionless in the skyrelative to Earth. Tracking observations, in fact, showed thesource ofthe signals to move westward, as time passed, with the apparent motionof a star. No satellite of Earth could possibly exist with such anorbit unless itwas close enough to show a detectable parallax. Thisdid not.A French station picked up the next batch of plaintive sounds. Kalua,Darjeeling, and Lebanon stillreceived. By the time the next signal wasdue, Croydon, in England, had its giant radar-telescope trained on thepart of the sky from which all the tracking stationsagreed the signalscame.Croydon painstakingly made observations during four seventy-nine-minuteintervals and four five-minute receptions of the fluting noises.Itreported that there was a source of artificial signals at an extremelygreat distance, position right ascension so-and-so, declinationsuch-and-such. The signalsbegan every seventy-nine minutes. They couldbe heard by any receiving instrument capable of handling the microwavefrequency involved. The broadcast wasextremely broad-band. It coveredmore than two octaves and sharp tuning was not necessary. A man-madesignal would have been confined to as narrow awave-band as possible,to save power for one reason, so it could not be imagined that thesignal was anything but artificial. Yet no Earth science could havesent atransmitter out so far.When sunrise arrived at the tracking station on Kalua, it ceased toreceive from space. On the other hand, tracking stations in theUnitedStates, the Antilles, and South America began to pick up the crypticsounds.The first released news of the happening was broadcast in the UnitedStates. Inthe South Pacific and India and the Near East and Europe,the whole matter seemed too improbable for the notification of thepublic. News pressure in the UnitedStates, though, is very great. Herethe news rated broadcast, and got it.That was why Joe Burke did not happen to complete the business forwhich he'd takenSandy Lund to a suitable, romantic spot. She was hissecretary and the only permanent employee in the highly individualbusiness he'd begun and operated. He'dknown her all his life, andit seemed to him that for most of it he'd wanted to marry her. Butsomething had happened to him when he was quite a small boy--andstillhappened at intervals--which interposed a mental block. He'd alwayswanted to be romantic with her, but there was a matter of two moonsin a strange-starredsky, and trees with foliage like none on Earth,and an overwhelming emotion. There was no rational explanation for it.There could be none. Often he'd told himselfthat Sandy was real andutterly desirable, and this lunatic repetitive experience was at worstinsanity and at the least delusion. But he'd never been able to domorethan stammer when talk between them went away from matter-of-factthings.Tonight, though, he'd parked his car where a river sparkled in themoonlight. Therewas a scent of pine and arbutus in the air and a faintthread of romantic music came from his car's radio. He'd brought Sandyhere to propose to her. He wasdoggedly resolved to break the chains apsychological oddity had tied him up in.He cleared his throat. He'd taken Sandy out to dinner, ostensibly tocelebrate thecompletion of a development job for Interiors, Inc. Burkehad started Burke Development, Inc., some four years out of collegewhen he found he didn't likeworking for other people and could workfor himself. Its function was to develop designs and processes forcompanies too small to have research-and-development


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                                      SHALLOW GRAVE                                       Written by                                       JohnHodge                                                             FINAL DRAFT          INT. DAY                    A blurred image forms on a whitescreen. A horizontal strip of           face, eyes motionless and unblinking.                     DAVID          (VOICE-OVER)           Taketrust, for instance, or friendship: these are the important           things in life, the things that matter, that help you on your           way. If you can't trust yourfriends, well, what then?                    EXT. DAWN                     A series of fast-cut static scenes of empty streets.                    DAVID          (VOICE-OVER)          This could have been any city: they're all the same.                    A rapid,swerving track along deserted streets and down narrow           lanes and passageways. Accompanied by soundtrack and credits.                    The trackends outside a solid, fashionable Edinburgh tenement.                    INT. STAIRWELL. DAY                    At the door of a flat on thethird floor of the tenement. The           door is dark, heavy wood and on it is a plastic card embossed           with the names of three tenants. They are Alex Law,David           Stevens, and Juliet Miller.                    A man climbs the stairs and reaches the door. He is Cameron           Clarke, thin and in his latetwenties with a blue anorak and           lank, greasy hair. He is carrying an awkwardly bulky plastic bag.           Cameron gives the doorbell an ineffectual ring and


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The House of the Seven Gables, by Nathaniel HawthorneThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The House of the Seven GablesAuthor: Nathaniel HawthorneRelease Date: June 17, 2008 [EBook #77]Language: English*** START OFTHIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES ***Produced by Judith Boss.  HTML version by Al Haines.THE HOUSE OF THE SEVENGABLESbyNATHANIEL HAWTHORNETable of Contents         INTRODUCTORY NOTE         AUTHOR'S PREFACE     I.  THE OLD PYNCHEON FAMILY    II.  THE LITTLESHOP-WINDOW   III.  THE FIRST CUSTOMER    IV.  A DAY BEHIND THE COUNTER     V.  MAY AND NOVEMBER    VI.  MAULE'S WELL   VII.  THE GUEST  VIII.  THEPYNCHEON OF TO-DAY    IX.  CLIFFORD AND PHOEBE     X.  THE PYNCHEON GARDEN    XI.  THE ARCHED WINDOW   XII.  THE DAGUERREOTYPIST  XIII.  ALICEPYNCHEON   XIV.  PHOEBE'S GOOD-BYE    XV.  THE SCOWL AND SMILE   XVI.  CLIFFORD'S CHAMBER  XVII.  THE FLIGHT OF TWO OWLS XVIII.  GOVERNORPYNCHEON   XIX.  ALICE'S POSIES    XX.  THE FLOWER OF EDEN   XXI.  THE DEPARTURE                         INTRODUCTORY NOTE.THE HOUSE OF THE SEVENGABLES.IN September of the year during the February of which Hawthorne hadcompleted "The Scarlet Letter," he began "The House of the SevenGables."Meanwhile, he had removed from Salem to Lenox, in BerkshireCounty, Massachusetts, where he occupied with his family a small redwooden house, still standingat the date of this edition, near theStockbridge Bowl."I sha'n't have the new story ready by November,"  he explained to hispublisher, on the 1st of October, "for Iam never good for anything inthe literary way till after the first autumnal frost, which hassomewhat such an effect on my imagination that it does on thefoliagehere about me-multiplying and brightening its hues." But by vigorousapplication he was able to complete the new work about the middle ofthe Januaryfollowing.Since research has disclosed the manner in which the romance isinterwoven with incidents from the history of the Hawthorne family,"The House of theSeven Gables" has acquired an interest apart fromthat by which it first appealed to the public. John Hathorne (as thename was then spelled), thegreat-grandfather of Nathaniel Hawthorne,was a magistrate at Salem in the latter part of the seventeenthcentury, and officiated at the famous trials for witchcraftheld there.It is of record that he used peculiar severity towards a certain womanwho was among the accused; and the husband of this woman prophesiedthat Godwould take revenge upon his wife's persecutors.  Thiscircumstance doubtless furnished a hint for that piece of tradition inthe book which represents a Pyncheon ofa former generation as havingpersecuted one Maule, who declared that God would give his enemy "bloodto drink." It became a conviction with the Hawthornefamily that acurse had been pronounced upon its members, which continued in force inthe time of the romancer; a conviction perhaps derived from therecordedprophecy of the injured woman's husband, just mentioned; and,here again, we have a correspondence with Maule's malediction in thestory. Furthermore, thereoccurs in the "American Note-Books" (August27, 1837), a reminiscence of the author's family, to the followingeffect. Philip English, a character well-known inearly Salem annals,was among those who suffered from John Hathorne's magisterialharshness, and he maintained in consequence a lasting feud with theoldPuritan official. But at his death English left daughters, one of whomis said to have married the son of Justice John Hathorne, whom Englishhad declared hewould never forgive. It is scarcely necessary to pointout how clearly this foreshadows the final union of those hereditaryfoes, the Pyncheons and Maules, throughthe marriage of Phoebe andHolgrave. The romance, however, describes the Maules as possessing someof the traits known to have been characteristic of theHawthornes: forexample, "so long as any of the race were to be found, they had beenmarked out from other men--not strikingly, nor as with a sharp line,but withan effect that was felt rather than spoken of--by anhereditary characteristic of reserve." Thus, while the generalsuggestion of the Hawthorne line and its fortuneswas followed in theromance, the Pyncheons taking the place of the author's family, certaindistinguishing marks of the Hawthornes were assigned to theimaginaryMaule posterity.There are one or two other points which indicate Hawthorne's method ofbasing his compositions, the result in the main of pureinvention, onthe solid ground of particular facts.  Allusion is made, in the firstchapter of the "Seven Gables," to a grant of lands in Waldo County,Maine, owned bythe Pyncheon family.  In the "American Note-Books"there is an entry, dated August 12, 1837, which speaks of theRevolutionary general, Knox, and his land-grantin Waldo County, byvirtue of which the owner had hoped to establish an estate on theEnglish plan, with a tenantry to make it profitable for him.  Anincident ofmuch greater importance in the story is the supposed murderof one of the Pyncheons by his nephew, to whom we are introduced asClifford Pyncheon.  In allprobability Hawthorne connected with this,in his mind, the murder of Mr. White, a wealthy gentleman of Salem,killed by a man whom his nephew had hired.  Thistook place a few yearsafter Hawthorne's graduation from college, and was one of thecelebrated cases of the day, Daniel Webster taking part prominently inthetrial.  But it should be observed here that such resemblances asthese between sundry elements in the work of Hawthorne's fancy anddetails of reality are onlyfragmentary, and are rearranged to suit theauthor's purposes.In the same way he has made his description of Hepzibah Pyncheon'sseven-gabled mansionconform so nearly to several old dwellingsformerly or still extant in Salem, that strenuous efforts have beenmade to fix upon some one of them as the veritableedifice of theromance.  A paragraph in the opening chapter has perhaps assisted thisdelusion that there must have been a single original House of theSevenGables, framed by flesh-and-blood carpenters; for it runs thus:--"Familiar as it stands in the writer's recollection--for it has been anobject of curiosity withhim from boyhood, both as a specimen of thebest and stateliest architecture of a long-past epoch, and as the sceneof events more full of interest perhaps thanthose of a gray feudalcastle--familiar as it stands, in its rusty old age, it is thereforeonly the more difficult to imagine the bright novelty with which itfirst caughtthe sunshine."Hundreds of pilgrims annually visit a house in Salem, belonging to onebranch of the Ingersoll family of that place, which is stoutlymaintained tohave been the model for Hawthorne's visionary dwelling.Others have supposed that the now vanished house of the identicalPhilip English, whose blood, as wehave already noticed, became mingledwith that of the Hawthornes, supplied the pattern; and still a thirdbuilding, known as the Curwen mansion, has beendeclared the onlygenuine establishment. Notwithstanding persistent popular belief, theauthenticity of all these must positively be denied; although it ispossiblethat isolated reminiscences of all three may have blended withthe ideal image in the mind of Hawthorne. He, it will be seen, remarksin the Preface, alluding tohimself in the third person, that he trustsnot to be condemned for "laying out a street that infringes uponnobody's private rights... and building a house ofmaterials long inuse for constructing castles in the air." More than this, he stated topersons still living that the house of the romance was not copied fromanyactual edifice, but was simply a general reproduction of a style ofarchitecture belonging to colonial days, examples of which survivedinto the period of his youth,but have since been radically modified ordestroyed. Here, as elsewhere, he exercised the liberty of a creativemind to heighten the probability of his pictureswithout confininghimself to a literal description of something he had seen.While Hawthorne remained at Lenox, and during the composition of thisromance,various other literary personages settled or stayed for a timein the vicinity; among them, Herman Melville, whose intercourseHawthorne greatly enjoyed, HenryJames, Sr., Doctor Holmes, J.  T.Headley, James Russell Lowell, Edwin P.  Whipple, Frederika Bremer, andJ.  T.  Fields; so that there was no lack of intellectualsociety inthe midst of the beautiful and inspiring mountain scenery of the place."In the afternoons, nowadays," he records, shortly before beginning thework, "thisvalley in which I dwell seems like a vast basin filled withgolden Sunshine as with wine;" and, happy in the companionship of hiswife and their three children, heled a simple, refined, idyllic life,despite the restrictions of a scanty and uncertain income.  A letterwritten by Mrs. Hawthorne, at this time, to a member of herfamily,gives incidentally a glimpse of the scene, which may properly find aplace here.  She says:  "I delight to think that you also can lookforth, as I do now, upona broad valley and a fine amphitheater ofhills, and are about to watch the stately ceremony of the sunset fromyour piazza.  But you have not this lovely lake, nor,I suppose, thedelicate purple mist which folds these slumbering mountains in airyveils.  Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the sun shine, slightlyfleckeredwith the shadows of a tree, and Una and Julian have beenmaking him look like the mighty Pan, by covering his chin and breastwith long grass-blades, that lookedlike a verdant and venerablebeard." The pleasantness and peace of his surroundings and of hismodest home, in Lenox, may be taken into account as harmonizingwiththe mellow serenity of the romance then produced.  Of the work, when itappeared in the early spring of 1851, he wrote to Horatio Bridge thesewords, nowpublished for the first time:--"'The House of the Seven Gables' in my opinion, is better than 'TheScarlet Letter:' but I should not wonder if I had refined upontheprincipal character a little too much for popular appreciation, nor ifthe romance of the book should be somewhat at odds with the humble andfamiliar sceneryin which I invest it.  But I feel that portions of itare as good as anything I can hope to write, and the publisher speaksencouragingly of its success."From England,especially, came many warm expressions of praise,--a factwhich Mrs. Hawthorne, in a private letter, commented on as thefulfillment of a possibility whichHawthorne, writing in boyhood to hismother, had looked forward to.  He had asked her if she would not likehim to become an author and have his books read inEngland.G. P. L.                              PREFACE.WHEN a writer calls his work a Romance, it need hardly be observed thathe wishes to claim a certain latitude, bothas to its fashion andmaterial, which he would not have felt himself entitled to assume hadhe professed to be writing a Novel.  The latter form of compositionispresumed to aim at a very minute fidelity, not merely to the possible,but to the probable and ordinary course of man's experience.  Theformer--while, as a work


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cossacks, by Leo TolstoyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The CossacksAuthor: Leo TolstoyTranslator: Louise and Aylmer MaudeRelease Date: January 18, 2009 [EBook #4761]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COSSACKS ***Produced by Steve Harris, Charles Franks and the OnlineDistributed ProofreadingTeam.THE COSSACKSA Tale of 1852ByLeo Tolstoy (1863)Translated by Louise and Aylmer MaudeChapter IAll is quiet in Moscow. The squeak of wheels is seldomheard in thesnow-covered street. There are no lights left in the windows and thestreet lamps have been extinguished. Only the sound of bells, borneover the cityfrom the church towers, suggests the approach of morning.The streets are deserted. At rare intervals a night-cabman's sledgekneads up the snow and sand in thestreet as the driver makes his wayto another corner where he falls asleep while waiting for a fare. Anold woman passes by on her way to church, where a few waxcandles burnwith a red light reflected on the gilt mountings of the icons. Workmenare already getting up after the long winter night and going to theirwork--butfor the gentlefolk it is still evening.From a window in Chevalier's Restaurant a light--illegal at thathour--is still to be seen through a chink in the shutter. Attheentrance a carriage, a sledge, and a cabman's sledge, stand closetogether with their backs to the curbstone. A three-horse sledge fromthe post-station is therealso. A yard-porter muffled up and pinchedwith cold is sheltering behind the corner of the house.'And what's the good of all this jawing?' thinks the footman whositsin the hall weary and haggard. 'This always happens when I'm on duty.'From the adjoining room are heard the voices of three young men,sitting there at atable on which are wine and the remains of supper.One, a rather plain, thin, neat little man, sits looking with tiredkindly eyes at his friend, who is about to starton a journey. Another,a tall man, lies on a sofa beside a table on which are empty bottles,and plays with his watch-key. A third, wearing a short, fur-lined coat,ispacing up and down the room stopping now and then to crack an almondbetween his strong, rather thick, but well-tended fingers. He keepssmiling at somethingand his face and eyes are all aglow. He speakswarmly and gesticulates, but evidently does not find the words he wantsand those that occur to him seem to himinadequate to express what hasrisen to his heart.'Now I can speak out fully,' said the traveller. 'I don't want todefend myself, but I should like you at least tounderstand me as Iunderstand myself, and not look at the matter superficially. You say Ihave treated her badly,' he continued, addressing the man with thekindlyeyes who was watching him.'Yes, you are to blame,' said the latter, and his look seemed toexpress still more kindliness and weariness.'I know why you say that,'rejoined the one who was leaving. 'To beloved is in your opinion as great a happiness as to love, and if a manobtains it, it is enough for his whole life.''Yes, quiteenough, my dear fellow, more than enough!' confirmed theplain little man, opening and shutting his eyes.'But why shouldn't the man love too?' said the travellerthoughtfully,looking at his friend with something like pity. 'Why shouldn't onelove? Because love doesn't come ... No, to be beloved is a misfortune.It is amisfortune to feel guilty because you do not give something youcannot give. O my God!' he added, with a gesture of his arm. 'If it allhappened reasonably, andnot all topsy-turvy--not in our way but in away of its own! Why, it's as if I had stolen that love! You think sotoo, don't deny it. You must think so. But will youbelieve it, of allthe horrid and stupid things I have found time to do in my life--andthere are many--this is one I do not and cannot repent of. Neither atthebeginning nor afterwards did I lie to myself or to her. It seemedto me that I had at last fallen in love, but then I saw that it was aninvoluntary falsehood, and thatthat was not the way to love, and Icould not go on, but she did. Am I to blame that I couldn't? What was Ito do?''Well, it's ended now!' said his friend, lighting acigar to master hissleepiness. 'The fact is that you have not yet loved and do not knowwhat love is.'The man in the fur-lined coat was going to speak again, andput hishands to his head, but could not express what he wanted to say.'Never loved! ... Yes, quite true, I never have! But after all, I havewithin me a desire tolove, and nothing could be stronger than thatdesire! But then, again, does such love exist? There always remainssomething incomplete. Ah well! What's the useof talking? I've made anawful mess of life! But anyhow it's all over now; you are quite right.And I feel that I am beginning a new life.''Which you will again make amess of,' said the man who lay on the sofaplaying with his watch-key. But the traveller did not listen to him.'I am sad and yet glad to go,' he continued. 'Why Iam sad I don'tknow.'And the traveller went on talking about himself, without noticing thatthis did not interest the others as much as it did him. A man isneversuch an egotist as at moments of spiritual ecstasy. At such times itseems to him that there is nothing on earth more splendid andinteresting thanhimself.'Dmitri Andreich! The coachman won't wait any longer!' said a youngserf, entering the room in a sheepskin coat, with a scarf tied roundhis head. 'Thehorses have been standing since twelve, and it's nowfour o'clock!'Dmitri Andreich looked at his serf, Vanyusha. The scarf roundVanyusha's head, his felt bootsand sleepy face, seemed to be callinghis master to a new life of labour, hardship, and activity.'True enough! Good-bye!' said he, feeling for the unfastened hookandeye on his coat.In spite of advice to mollify the coachman by another tip, he put onhis cap and stood in the middle of the room. The friends kissed once,thenagain, and after a pause, a third time. The man in the fur-linedcoat approached the table and emptied a champagne glass, then took theplain little man's handand blushed.'Ah well, I will speak out all the same ... I must and will be frankwith you because I am fond of you ... Of course you love her--I alwaysthoughtso--don't you?''Yes,' answered his friend, smiling still more gently.'And perhaps...''Please sir, I have orders to put out the candles,' said the sleepyattendant, whohad been listening to the last part of the conversationand wondering why gentlefolk always talk about one and the same thing.'To whom shall I make out the bill?To you, sir?' he added, knowingwhom to address and turning to the tall man.'To me,' replied the tall man. 'How much?''Twenty-six rubles.'The tall manconsidered for a moment, but said nothing and put the billin his pocket.The other two continued their talk.'Good-bye, you are a capital fellow!' said the short plainman with themild eyes. Tears filled the eyes of both. They stepped into the porch.'Oh, by the by,' said the traveller, turning with a blush to the tallman, 'will yousettle Chevalier's bill and write and let me know?''All right, all right!' said the tall man, pulling on his gloves. 'HowI envy you!' he added quite unexpectedly whenthey were out in theporch.The traveller got into his sledge, wrapped his coat about him, andsaid: 'Well then, come along!' He even moved a little to make roominthe sledge for the man who said he envied him--his voice trembled.'Good-bye, Mitya! I hope that with God's help you...' said the tallone. But his wish was thatthe other would go away quickly, and so hecould not finish the sentence.They were silent a moment. Then someone again said, 'Good-bye,' and avoice cried,'Ready,' and the coachman touched up the horses.'Hy, Elisar!' One of the friends called out, and the other coachman andthe sledge-drivers began moving,clicking their tongues and pulling atthe reins. Then the stiffened carriage-wheels rolled squeaking over thefrozen snow.'A fine fellow, that Olenin!' said one of thefriends. 'But what anidea to go to the Caucasus--as a cadet, too! I wouldn't do it foranything. ... Are you dining at the club to-morrow?''Yes.'They separated.Thetraveller felt warm, his fur coat seemed too hot. He sat on thebottom of the sledge and unfastened his coat, and the three shaggypost-horses dragged themselvesout of one dark street into another,past houses he had never before seen. It seemed to Olenin that onlytravellers starting on a long journey went through thosestreets. Allwas dark and silent and dull around him, but his soul was full ofmemories, love, regrets, and a pleasant tearful feeling.Chapter II'I'm fond of them,very fond! ... First-rate fellows! ... Fine!' hekept repeating, and felt ready to cry. But why he wanted to cry, whowere the first-rate fellows he was so fond of--wasmore than he quiteknew. Now and then he looked round at some house and wondered why itwas so curiously built; sometimes he began wondering why thepost-boyand Vanyusha, who were so different from himself, sat so near, andtogether with him were being jerked about and swayed by the tugs theside-horsesgave at the frozen traces, and again he repeated: 'Firstrate ... very fond!' and once he even said: 'And how it seizes one ...excellent!' and wondered what madehim say it. 'Dear me, am I drunk?'he asked himself. He had had a couple of bottles of wine, but it wasnot the wine alone that was having this effect on Olenin. Herememberedall the words of friendship heartily, bashfully, spontaneously (as hebelieved) addressed to him on his departure. He remembered the clasp ofhands,glances, the moments of silence, and the sound of a voicesaying, 'Good-bye, Mitya!' when he was already in the sledge. Heremembered his own deliberatefrankness. And all this had a touchingsignificance for him. Not only friends and relatives, not only peoplewho had been indifferent to him, but even those who didnot like him,seemed to have agreed to become fonder of him, or to forgive him,before his departure, as people do before confession or death. 'PerhapsI shall notreturn from the Caucasus,' he thought. And he felt that heloved his friends and some one besides. He was sorry for himself. Butit was not love for his friends thatso stirred and uplifted his heartthat he could not repress the meaningless words that seemed to rise ofthemselves to his lips; nor was it love for a woman (he hadnever yetbeen in love) that had brought on this mood. Love for himself, lovefull of hope--warm young love for all that was good in his own soul(and at thatmoment it seemed to him that there was nothing but good init)--compelled him to weep and to mutter incoherent words.Olenin was a youth who had nevercompleted his university course, neverserved anywhere (having only a nominal post in some government officeor other), who had squandered half his fortuneand had reached the ageof twenty-four without having done anything or even chosen a career. Hewas what in Moscow society is termed un jeune homme.At theage of eighteen he was free--as only rich young Russians in the'forties who had lost their parents at an early age could be. Neitherphysical nor moral fetters ofany kind existed for him; he could do ashe liked, lacking nothing and bound by nothing. Neither relatives, norfatherland, nor religion, nor wants, existed for him.