ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pierre and Jean, by Guy de MaupassantThis 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: Pierre and JeanAuthor: Guy de MaupassantTranslator: Clara BellRelease Date: April 12, 2006 [EBook #3804]Last Updated: February 23,2018Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PIERRE AND JEAN ***Produced by Dagny; John Bickers;HTML file by David WidgerPIERRE & JEANBy Guy De MaupassantTranslated By Clara BellCHAPTER IâTschah!â exclaimed old Roland suddenly, after he hadremainedmotionless for a quarter of an hour, his eyes fixed on the water, whilenow and again he very slightly lifted his line sunk in the sea.Mme. Roland, dozingin the stern by the side of Mme. Rosemilly, who hadbeen invited to join the fishing-party, woke up, and turning her head tolook at her husband, said:âWell,well! Gerome.âAnd the old fellow replied in a fury:âThey do not bite at all. I have taken nothing since noon. Only menshould ever go fishing. Womenalways delay the start till it is toolate.âHis two sons, Pierre and Jean, who each held a line twisted round hisforefinger, one to port and one to starboard, bothbegan to laugh, andJean remarked:âYou are not very polite to our guest, father.âM. Roland was abashed, and apologized.âI beg your pardon, Mme.Rosemilly, but that is just like me. I inviteladies because I like to be with them, and then, as soon as I feel thewater beneath me, I think of nothing but thefish.âMme. Roland was now quite awake, and gazing with a softened look at thewide horizon of cliff and sea.âYou have had good sport, all the same,âshe murmured.But her husband shook his head in denial, though at the same time heglanced complacently at the basket where the fish caught by the threemenwere still breathing spasmodically, with a low rustle of clammyscales and struggling fins, and dull, ineffectual efforts, gasping inthe fatal air. Old Roland took thebasket between his knees and tiltedit up, making the silver heap of creatures slide to the edge that hemight see those lying at the bottom, and their death-throesbecame moreconvulsive, while the strong smell of their bodies, a wholesome reekof brine, came up from the full depths of the creel. The old fishermansniffed iteagerly, as we smell at roses, and exclaimed:âCristi! But they are fresh enough!â and he went on: âHow many did youpull out, doctor?âHis eldestson, Pierre, a man of thirty, with black whiskers trimmedsquare like a lawyer's, his mustache and beard shaved away, replied:âOh, not many; three orfour.âThe father turned to the younger. âAnd you, Jean?â said he.Jean, a tall fellow, much younger than his brother, fair, with a fullbeard, smiled andmurmured:âMuch the same as Pierre--four or five.âEvery time they told the same fib, which delighted father Roland. He hadhitched his line round arow-lock, and folding his arms he announced:âI will never again try to fish after noon. After ten in the morning itis all over. The lazy brutes will not bite; theyare taking their siestain the sun.â And he looked round at the sea on all sides, with thesatisfied air of a proprietor.He was a retired jeweller who had been ledby an inordinate love ofseafaring and fishing to fly from the shop as soon as he had made enoughmoney to live in modest comfort on the interest of his savings.Heretired to le Havre, bought a boat, and became an amateur skipper.His two sons, Pierre and Jean, had remained at Paris to continue theirstudies, and came forthe holidays from time to time to share theirfather's amusements.On leaving school, Pierre, the elder, five years older than Jean, hadfelt a vocation to variousprofessions and had tried half a dozen insuccession, but, soon disgusted with each in turn, he started afreshwith new hopes. Medicine had been his last fancy, andhe had set to workwith so much ardour that he had just qualified after an unusually shortcourse of study, by a special remission of time from the minister. Hewasenthusiastic, intelligent, fickle, but obstinate, full of Utopiasand philosophical notions.Jean, who was as fair as his brother was dark, as deliberate as hisbrotherwas vehement, as gentle as his brother was unforgiving, hadquietly gone through his studies for the law and had just taken hisdiploma as a licentiate, at the timewhen Pierre had taken his inmedicine. So they were now having a little rest at home, and both lookedforward to settling in Havre if they could find a satisfactoryopening.But a vague jealousy, one of those dormant jealousies which grow upbetween brothers or sisters and slowly ripen till they burst, on theoccasion of amarriage perhaps, or of some good fortune happening toone of them, kept them on the alert in a sort of brotherly andnon-aggressive animosity. They were fondof each other, it is true, butthey watched each other. Pierre, five years old when Jean was born,had looked with the eyes of a little petted animal at that otherlittleanimal which had suddenly come to lie in his father's and mother's armsand to be loved and fondled by them. Jean, from his birth, had alwaysbeen a patternof sweetness, gentleness, and good temper, and Pierre hadby degrees begun to chafe at ever-lastingly hearing the praises of thisgreat lad, whose sweetness inhis eyes was indolence, whose gentlenesswas stupidity, and whose kindliness was blindness. His parents, whosedream for their sons was some respectable andundistinguished calling,blamed him for so often changing his mind, for his fits of enthusiasm,his abortive beginnings, and all his ineffectual impulsestowardsgenerous ideas and the liberal professions.Since he had grown to manhood they no longer said in so many words:âLook at Jean and follow hisexample,â but every time he heard them sayâJean did this--Jean does that,â he understood their meaning and thehint the words conveyed.Theirmother, an orderly person, a thrifty and rather sentimental womanof the middle class, with the soul of a soft-hearted book-keeper, wasconstantly quenching thelittle rivalries between her two big sonsto which the petty events of their life constantly gave rise. Anotherlittle circumstance, too, just now disturbed her peace ofmind, andshe was in fear of some complications; for in the course of the winter,while her boys were finishing their studies, each in his own line, shehad made theacquaintance of a neighbour, Mme. Rosemilly, the widow of acaptain of a merchantman who had died at sea two years before. The youngwidow--quite young,only three-and-twenty--a woman of strong intellectwho knew life by instinct as the free animals do, as though shehad seen, gone through, understood, andweighted every conceivablecontingency, and judged them with a wholesome, strict, and benevolentmind, had fallen into the habit of calling to work or chat for anhourin the evening with these friendly neighbours, who would give her a cupof tea.Father Roland, always goaded on by his seafaring craze, would questiontheirnew friend about the departed captain; and she would talk of him,and his voyages, and his old-world tales, without hesitation, like aresigned and reasonablewoman who loves life and respects death.The two sons on their return, finding the pretty widow quite at home inthe house, forthwith began to court her, lessfrom any wish to charm herthan from the desire to cut each other out.Their mother, being practical and prudent, sincerely hoped that one ofthem might win theyoung widow, for she was rich; but then she wouldhave liked that the other should not be grieved.Mme. Rosemilly was fair, with blue eyes, a mass of light wavinghair,fluttering at the least breath of wind, and an alert, daring, pugnaciouslittle way with her, which did not in the least answer to the sobermethod of hermind.She already seemed to like Jean best, attracted, no doubt, by anaffinity of nature. This preference, however, she betrayed only byan almost imperceptibledifference of voice and look and also byoccasionally asking his opinion. She seemed to guess that Jean'sviews would support her own, while those of Pierre mustinevitablybe different. When she spoke of the doctor's ideas on politics, art,philosophy, or morals, she would sometimes say: âYour crotchets.â Thenhewould look at her with the cold gleam of an accuser drawing up anindictment against women--all women, poor weak things.Never till his sons came home had M.Roland invited her to join hisfishing expeditions, nor had he ever taken his wife; for he liked to putoff before daybreak, with his ally, Captain Beausire, a mastermarinerretired, whom he had first met on the quay at high tides and with whomhe had struck up an intimacy, and the old sailor Papagris, known as JeanBart, inwhose charge the boat was left.But one evening of the week before, Mme. Rosemilly, who had been diningwith them, remarked, âIt must be great fun to goout fishing.â Thejeweller, flattered by her interest and suddenly fired with the wishto share his favourite sport with her, and to make a convert afterthemanner of priests, exclaimed: âWould you like to come?ââTo be sure I should.ââNext Tuesday?ââYes, next Tuesday.ââAreyou the woman to be ready to start at five in the morning?âShe exclaimed in horror:âNo, indeed: that is too much.âHe was disappointed and chilled,suddenly doubting her true vocation.However, he said:âAt what hour can you be ready?ââWell--at nine?ââNot before?ââNo, notbefore. Even that is very early.âThe old fellow hesitated; he certainly would catch nothing, for when thesun has warmed the sea the fish bite no more; but thetwo brothers hadeagerly pressed the scheme, and organized and arranged everything thereand then.So on the following Tuesday the Pearl had dropped anchorunder the whiterocks of Cape la Heve; they had fished till midday, then they had sleptawhile, and then fished again without catching anything; and then itwasthat father Roland, perceiving, rather late, that all that Mme.Rosemilly really enjoyed and cared for was the sail on the sea, andseeing that his lines hungmotionless, had uttered in a spirit ofunreasonable annoyance, that vehement âTschah!â which applied as much tothe pathetic widow as to the creatureshe could not catch.Now he contemplated the spoil--his fish--with the joyful thrill of amiser; seeing as he looked up at the sky that the sun was gettinglow:âWell, boys,â said he, âsuppose we turn homeward.âThe young men hauled in their lines, coiled them up, cleaned the hooksand stuck theminto corks, and sat waiting.Roland stood up to look out like a captain.âNo wind,â said he. âYou will have to pull, young 'uns.âAnd suddenlyextending one arm to the northward, he exclaimed:âHere comes the packet from Southampton.âAway over the level sea, spread out like a blue sheet,vast and sheenyand shot with flame and gold, an inky cloud was visible against the rosysky in the quarter to which he pointed, and below it they could makeoutthe hull of the steamer, which looked tiny at such a distance. And tosouthward other wreaths of smoke, numbers of them, could be seen, allconverging


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                     INDIANA JONES AND THE TEMPLE OF DOOM                                 STORYBY:                               GEORGE LUCAS                               SCREENPLAY BY:                               WILLARDHUYCK                                    AND                                GLORIA KATZ        TM* & (c) Lucasfilm Ltd.,1984                                --------------       FADE IN:1.     INT.  "THE DRAGON" NIGHTCLUB - NIGHT                            1.       AChinese GONG SOUNDS and the glittering doors of an art Deco pa-       poda slide open to reveal a mammoth silver stairway down which       rows of beautifulwomen start descending   (BEGIN MAIN TITLES)       The lovely ladies are a mix of races and they sing a strange,       haunting melody -- one might think them aheavenly choir, if it       weren't for their sexy, clinging lame gowns.2.     INT.  CLUB ENTRANCE                                             2.       From the etherealbeauties, we cut to a street urchin's dirty       face: SHORT ROUND is a ten-year-old Chinese kis wearing a beat-       up American baseball cap.       Sneaking intothe club, Short Round weaves past the fancy gowns       and silk suits, heading toward the music in the main ballroom.3.     INT.  THEBALLROOM                                              3.       Short Round enters and stares across the smoky nightclub.  On the       stage, he sees a giant


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great Stone Face, 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.orgTitle: The Great Stone Face       And Other Tales Of The White MountainsAuthor: Nathaniel HawthorneRelease Date: February 25, 2006[EBook #1916]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT STONE FACE ***Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer andDavid WidgerTHE GREAT STONE FACE AND OTHER TALES OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINSBy Nathaniel Hawthorne1882CONTENTS     Introduction     The Great StoneFace     The Ambitious Guest     The Great Carbuncle     Sketches From MemoryINTRODUCTIONTHE first three numbers in this collection are tales of the WhiteHillsin New Hampshire. The passages from Sketches from Memory show thatHawthorne had visited the mountains in one of his occasional ramblesfrom home, butthere are no entries in his Note Books which giveaccounts of such a visit. There is, however, among these notesthe following interesting paragraph, written in1840 and clearlyforeshadowing The Great Stone Face:'The semblance of a human face to be formed on the side of a mountain,or in the fracture of a small stone,by a lusus naturae [freak ofnature]. The face is an object of curiosity for years or centuries, andby and by a boy is born whose features gradually assume theaspect ofthat portrait. At some critical juncture the resemblance is found to beperfect. A prophecy may be connected.'It is not impossible that this conceitoccurred to Hawthorne before hehad himself seen the Old Man of the Mountain, or the Profile, in theFranconia Notch which is generally associated in the minds ofreaderswith The Great Stone Face.In The Ambitious Guest he has made use of the incident still told totravellers through the Notch, of the destruction of the Willeyfamilyin August, 1826. The house occupied by the family was on the slope ofa mountain, and after a long drought there was a terrible tempest whichnot onlyraised the river to a great height but loosened the surface ofthe mountain so that a great landslide took place. The house was inthe track of the slide, and thefamily rushed out of doors. Had theyremained within they would have been safe, for a ledge above the houseparted the avalanche so that it was diverted into twopaths and sweptpast the house on either side. Mr. and Mrs. Willey, their five children,and two hired men were crushed under the weight of earth, rocks,andtrees.In the Sketches from Memory Hawthorne gives an intimation of the talewhich he might write and did afterward write of The Great Carbuncle. Thepaperis interesting as showing what were the actual experiences out ofwhich he formed his imaginative stories.THE GREAT STONE FACE and Other Tales Of The WhiteMountainsTHE GREAT STONE FACEOne afternoon, when the sun was going down, a mother and her little boysat at the door of their cottage, talking about theGreat Stone Face.They had but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be seen,though miles away, with the sunshine brightening all its features.And whatwas the Great Stone Face? Embosomed amongst a family oflofty mountains, there was a valley so spacious that it contained manythousand inhabitants. Some ofthese good people dwelt in log-huts, withthe black forest all around them, on the steep and difficult hillsides.Others had their homes in comfortable farm-houses,and cultivated therich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces of the valley. Others,again, were congregated into populous villages, where some wild,highlandrivulet, tumbling down from its birthplace in the uppermountain region, had been caught and tamed by human cunning, andcompelled to turn the machinery ofcotton-factories. The inhabitants ofthis valley, in short, were numerous, and of many modes of life. But allof them, grown people and children, had a kind offamiliarity with theGreat Stone Face, although some possessed the gift of distinguishingthis grand natural phenomenon more perfectly than many oftheirneighbors.The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature in her mood of majestieplayfulness, formed on the perpendicular side of a mountain bysomeimmense rocks, which had been thrown together in such a position as,when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to resemble the features ofthe humancountenance. It seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan,had sculptured his own likeness on the precipice. There was the broadarch of the forehead, a hundredfeet in height; the nose, with its longbridge; and the vast lips, which, if they could have spoken, would haverolled their thunder accents from one end of the valleyto the other.True it is, that if the spectator approached too near, he lost theoutline of the gigantic visage, and could discern only a heap ofponderous and giganticrocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon another.Retracing his steps, however, the wondrous features would again be seen;and the farther he withdrew from them,the more like a human face, withall its original divinity intact, did they appear; until, as it grew dimin the distance, with the clouds and glorified vapor of themountainsclustering about it, the Great Stone Face seemed positively to be alive.It was a happy lot for children to grow up to manhood or womanhood withtheGreat Stone Face before their eyes, for all the features were noble,and the expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were the glowof a vast, warm heart,that embraced all mankind in its affections, andhad room for more. It was an education only to look at it. According tothe belief of many people, the valley owedmuch of its fertility to thisbenign aspect that was continually beaming over it, illuminating theclouds, and infusing its tenderness into the sunshine.As we beganwith saying, a mother and her little boy sat at theircottage-door, gazing at the Great Stone Face, and talking about it. Thechild's name was Ernest.'Mother,' saidhe, while the Titanic visage miled on him, 'I wish thatit could speak, for it looks so very kindly that its voice must needsbe pleasant. If I were to See a man withsuch a face, I should love himdearly.' 'If an old prophecy should come to pass,' answered his mother,'we may see a man, some time for other, with exactly such aface asthat.' 'What prophecy do you mean, dear mother?' eagerly inquiredErnest. 'Pray tell me all about it!'So his mother told him a story that her own motherhad told to her, whenshe herself was younger than little Ernest; a story, not of things thatwere past, but of what was yet to come; a story, nevertheless, soveryold, that even the Indians, who formerly inhabited this valley, hadheard it from their forefathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had beenmurmured by themountain streams, and whispered by the wind among thetree-tops. The purport was, that, at some future day, a child shouldbe born hereabouts, who wasdestined to become the greatest and noblestpersonage of his time, and whose countenance, in manhood, should bearan exact resemblance to the Great StoneFace. Not a few old-fashionedpeople, and young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, stillcherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy. But others, whohadseen more of the world, had watched and waited till they were weary, andhad beheld no man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be muchgreater ornobler than his neighbors, concluded it to be nothing butan idle tale. At all events, the great man of the prophecy had not yetappeared.'O mother, dear mother!'cried Ernest, clapping his hands above his head,'I do hope that I shall live to see him!'His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful woman, and felt that itwaswisest not to discourage the generous hopes of her little boy. Soshe only said to him, 'Perhaps you may.'And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother toldhim. It wasalways in his mind, whenever he looked upon the Great Stone Face.He spent his childhood in the log-cottage where he was born, and wasdutiful to hismother, and helpful to her in many things, assistingher much with his little hands, and more with his loving heart. In thismanner, from a happy yet often pensivechild, he grew up to be a mild,quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with labor in the fields, butwith more intelligence brightening his aspect than is seen inmany ladswho have been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had no teacher,save only that the Great Stone Face became one to him. When the toilof theday was over, he would gaze at it for hours, until he began toimagine that those vast features recognized him, and gave him a smile ofkindness andencouragement, responsive to his own look of veneration.We must not take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, althoughthe Face may have looked nomore kindly at Ernest than at all theworld besides. But the secret was that the boy's tender and confidingsimplicity discerned what other people could not see;and thus the love,which was meant for all, became his peculiar portion.About this time there went a rumor throughout the valley, that the greatman, foretoldfrom ages long ago, who was to bear a resemblance tothe Great Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, many yearsbefore, a young man had migratedfrom the valley and settled at adistant seaport, where, after getting together a little money, he hadset up as a shopkeeper. His name but I could never learnwhether it washis real one, or a nickname that had grown out of his habits and successin life--was Gathergold.Being shrewd and active, and endowed byProvidence with that inscrutablefaculty which develops itself in what the world calls luck, he became anexceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole fleet ofbulky-bottomedships. All the countries of the globe appeared to join hands for themere purpose of adding heap after heap to the mountainous accumulationof thisone man's wealth. The cold regions of the north, almost withinthe gloom and shadow of the Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in theshape of furs; hot Africasifted for him the golden sands of her rivers,and gathered up the ivory tusks of her great elephants out of theforests; the east came bringing him the rich shawls,and spices, andteas, and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming purity of largepearls. The ocean, not to be behindhand with the earth, yielded uphermighty whales, that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make aprofit on it. Be the original commodity what it might, it was goldwithin his grasp. It mightbe said of him, as of Midas, in the fable,that whatever he touched with his finger immediately glistened, and grewyellow, and was changed at once into sterlingmetal, or, which suitedhim still better, into piles of coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold hadbecome so very rich that it would have taken him a hundred years onlytocount his wealth, he bethought himself of his native valley, andresolved to go back thither, and end his days where he was born. Withthis purpose in view, hesent a skilful architect to build him such apalace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to live in.As I have said above, it had already been rumored in thevalley thatMr. Gathergold had turned out to be the prophetic personage so long andvainly looked for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniablesimilitude


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fortune of the Rougons, 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: The Fortune of the RougonsAuthor: Emile ZolaEditor: Ernest Alfred VizetellyRelease Date: April 22, 2006 [EBook #5135]Last Updated:September 5, 2016Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONS***Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David WidgerTHE FORTUNE OF THE ROUGONSBy Emile ZolaEdited With Introduction By Ernest AlfredVizetellyINTRODUCTIONâThe Fortune of the Rougonsâ is the initial volume of theRougon-Macquart series. Though it was by no means M. Zolaâs firstessayin fiction, it was undoubtedly his first great bid for genuine literaryfame, and the foundation of what must necessarily be regarded as hislife-work. The ideaof writing the ânatural and social history of afamily under the Second Empire,â extending to a score of volumes, wasdoubtless suggested to M. Zola byBalzacâs immortal âComedie Humaine.â He was twenty-eight years of age when this idea first occurred to him;he was fifty-three when he at last sentthe manuscript of his concludingvolume, âDr. Pascal,â to the press. He had spent five-and-twenty yearsin working out his scheme, persevering with itdoggedly and stubbornly,whatever rebuffs he might encounter, whatever jeers and whatever insultsmight be directed against him by the ignorant, the prejudiced,and thehypocritical. Truth was on the march and nothing could stay it; even as,at the present hour, its march, if slow, none the less continues athwartanotherand a different crisis of the illustrious novelistâs career.It was in the early summer of 1869 that M. Zola first began the actualwriting of âThe Fortune ofthe Rougons.â It was only in the followingyear, however, that the serial publication of the work commenced inthe columns of âLe Siecle,â theRepublican journal of most influencein Paris in those days of the Second Empire. The Franco-German warinterrupted this issue of the story, and publication inbook form didnot take place until the latter half of 1871, a time when both the warand the Commune had left Paris exhausted, supine, with little or nointerest inanything. No more unfavourable moment for the issue of anambitious work of fiction could have been found. Some two or threeyears went by, as I wellremember, before anything like a revival ofliterature and of public interest in literature took place. Thus, M.Zola launched his gigantic scheme under auspiceswhich would have mademany another man recoil. âThe Fortune of the Rougons,â and two or threesubsequent volumes of his series, attracted but amoderate degreeof attention, and it was only on the morrow of the publication ofâLâAssommoirâ that he awoke, like Byron, to find himself famous.Aspreviously mentioned, the Rougon-Macquart series forms twentyvolumes. The last of these, âDr. Pascal,â appeared in 1893. Sincethen M. Zola haswritten âLourdes,â âRome,â and âParis.â Critics haverepeated _ad nauseam_ that these last works constitute a new departureon M.Zolaâs part, and, so far as they formed a new series, thisis true. But the suggestion that he has in any way repented of theRougon-Macquart novels isridiculous. As he has often told me of recentyears, it is, as far as possible, his plan to subordinate his style andmethods to his subject. To have written a book likeâRome,â so largelydevoted to the ambitions of the Papal See, in the same way as he hadwritten books dealing with the drunkenness or other vices ofParis,would have been the climax of absurdity.Yet the publication of âRome,â was the signal for a general outcry onthe part of English and Americanreviewers that Zolaism, as typified bythe Rougon-Macquart series, was altogether a thing of the past. To mythinking this is a profound error. M. Zola has alwaysremained faithfulto himself. The only difference that I perceive between his latestwork, âParis,â and certain Rougon-Macquart volumes, is that withtime,experience and assiduity, his genius has expanded and ripened, and thatthe hesitation, the groping for truth, so to say, which may be found insome of hisearlier writings, has disappeared.At the time when âThe Fortune of the Rougonsâ was first published, nonebut the author himself can have imagined thatthe foundation-stone ofone of the great literary monuments of the century had just been laid.From the âstoryâ point of view the book is one of M.Zolaâs very best,although its construction--particularly as regards the long interlude ofthe idyll of Miette and Silvere--is far from being perfect. Such aworkwhen first issued might well bring its author a measure of popularity,but it could hardly confer fame. Nowadays, however, looking backward,and bearing inmind that one here has the genius of M. Zolaâs lifework,âThe Fortune of the Rougonsâ becomes a book of exceptional interestand importance. Thishas been so well understood by French readers thatduring the last six or seven years the annual sales of the work haveincreased threefold. Where, over a courseof twenty years, 1,000 copieswere sold, 2,500 and 3,000 are sold to-day. How many living Englishnovelists can say the same of their early essays in fiction,issued morethan a quarter of a century ago?I may here mention that at the last date to which I have authenticfigures, that is, Midsummer 1897 (prior, of course,to what is calledâLâAffaire Dreyfusâ), there had been sold of the entire Rougon-Macquartseries (which had begun in 1871) 1,421,000 copies. Thesewere of theordinary Charpentier editions of the French originals. By adding theretoseveral _editions de luxe_ and the widely-circulated popular illustratededitionsof certain volumes, the total amounts roundly to 2,100,000.âRome,â âLourdes,â âParis,â and all M. Zolaâs other works, apart fromtheâRougon-Macquartâ series, together with the translations into adozen different languages--English, German, Italian, Spanish, Dutch,Danish, Portuguese,Bohemian, Hungarian, and others--are not includedin the above figures. Otherwise the latter might well be doubled. Noris account taken of the many serial issueswhich have brought M. Zolaâsviews to the knowledge of the masses of all Europe.It is, of course, the celebrity attaching to certain of M. Zolaâsliteraryefforts that has stimulated the demand for his other writings.Among those which are well worthy of being read for their own sakes, Iwould assign a prominentplace to the present volume. Much of the storyelement in it is admirable, and, further, it shows M. Zola as agenuine satirist and humorist. The Rougonsâyellow drawing-room andits habitues, and many of the scenes between Pierre Rougon and his wifeFelicite, are worthy of the pen of Douglas Jerrold. The wholeaccount,indeed, of the town of Plassans, its customs and its notabilities, issatire of the most effective kind, because it is satire true to life,and never degeneratesinto mere caricature.It is a rather curious coincidence that, at the time when M. Zola wasthus portraying the life of Provence, his great contemporary,bosomfriend, and rival for literary fame, the late Alphonse Daudet, shouldhave been producing, under the title of âThe Provencal Don Quixote,â thatunrivalled presentment of the foibles of the French Southerner,with everyone nowadays knows as âTartarin of Tarascon.â It is possiblethat M. Zola, whilewriting his book, may have read the instalments ofâLe Don Quichotte Provencalâ published in the Paris âFigaro,â and it maybe that this perusalimparted that fillip to his pen to which we owethe many amusing particulars that he gives us of the town of Plassans.Plassans, I may mention, is really theProvencal Aix, which M. Zolaâsfather provided with water by means of a canal still bearing his name.M. Zola himself, though born in Paris, spent the greaterpart of hischildhood there. Tarascon, as is well known, never forgave AlphonseDaudet for his âTartarinâ; and in a like way M. Zola, who doubtlesscountsmore enemies than any other literary man of the period, has nonebitterer than the worthy citizens of Aix. They cannot forget or forgivethe rascallyRougon-Macquarts.The name Rougon-Macquart has to me always suggested that splendid andamusing type of the cynical rogue, Robert Macaire. But, of course,bothRougon and Macquart are genuine French names and not inventions. Indeed,several years ago I came by chance upon them both, in an old Frenchdeedwhich I was examining at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. Ithere found mention of a Rougon family and a Macquart family dwellingvirtually side by side inthe same village. This, however, was inChampagne, not in Provence. Both families farmed vineyards for a oncefamous abbey in the vicinity of Epernay, early inthe seventeenthcentury. To me, personally, this trivial discovery meant a great deal.It somehow aroused my interest in M. Zola and his works. Of the latter Ihadthen only glanced through two or three volumes. With M. Zola himselfI was absolutely unacquainted. However, I took the liberty to inform himof my littlediscovery; and afterwards I read all the books that he hadpublished. Now, as it is fairly well known, I have given the greaterpart of my time, for several yearspast, to the task of familiarisingEnglish readers with his writings. An old deed, a chance glance,followed by the great friendship of my life and years of patientlabour.If I mention this matter, it is solely with the object of endorsing thetruth of the saying that the most insignificant incidents frequentlyinfluence and evenshape our careers.But I must come back to âThe Fortune of the Rougons.â It has, as I havesaid, its satirical and humorous side; but it also contains astrongelement of pathos. The idyll of Miette and Silvere is a very touchingone, and quite in accord with the conditions of life prevailing inProvence at the period M.Zola selects for his narrative. Miette isa frank child of nature; Silvere, her lover, in certain respectsforeshadows, a quarter of a century in advance, the AbbePierre Fromontof âLourdes,â âRome,â and âParis.â The environment differs, of course,but germs of the same nature may readily bedetected in both characters.As for the other personages of M. Zolaâs book--on the one hand, AuntDide, Pierre Rougon, his wife, Felicite, and their sonsEugene, Aristideand Pascal, and, on the other, Macquart, his daughter Gervaise ofâLâAssommoir,â and his son Jean of âLa Terreâ and âLaDebacle,â togetherwith the members of the Mouret branch of the ravenous, neurotic, duplexfamily--these are analysed or sketched in a way which renderstheirsubsequent careers, as related in other volumes of the series,thoroughly consistent with their origin and their up-bringing. I ventureto asset that, although itis possible to read individual volumes ofthe Rougon-Macquart series while neglecting others, nobody can reallyunderstand any one of these books unless he


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<TITLE> Buffy, the VampireSlayer</TITLE>
                               Buffy, the VampireSlayer                                           by                                      Joss Whedon              FADE IN:             EXT. MEDIEVAL VILLAGE - JUST BEFORESUNSET             We see an Italian village at the height of the plague.  Funeral              processions, decrepit houses with their windows boardedup...               the stench of death all around.             TITLE:  EUROPE. THE DARK AGES             Through the filth a KNIGHT walks his horse.  He isweary but              not so dingy as his surrounding; a stranger in these parts.               He comes to an inn, where a boy takes his horse roundback.               He enters the inn.             INT. INN - SAME TIME             The inn is dark and almost empty.  A couple of patrons drink              silentlyat tables.  Behind the bar stands a slovenly BARMAID,              dark-haired and lazy.  She scratches at her shoulder, on which              we see a birthmark.  Theknight approaches the bar, throws              money down.                                       KNIGHT                            A tankard of ale, wench.             Thebarmaid pours him a cup of ale.  He drinks deep, stands


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jack The Giant Killer, by Percival LeighThis 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: Jack The Giant KillerAuthor: Percival LeighIllustrator: John LeechRelease Date: February 26, 2014 [EBook #45021]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JACK THE GIANT KILLER ***Produced by David Widger from images generously providedby TheInternet ArchiveJACK THE GIANT KILLER.By Percival LeighThe Author Of "The Comic Latin Grammar."With Illustrations by JOHN LEECH1853[Illustration:013]{001}THE ARGUMENT.            I sing the deeds of famous Jack,                The doughty Giant Killer hight;            How he did various monsters"whack,"                And so became a gallant knight.             In Arthur's days of splendid fun                (His Queen was Guenever the Pliant),--             EreBritain's sorrows had begun;                When every cave contained its giant;             When griffins fierce as bats were rife;                 And till a knight had slainhis dragon,              At trifling risk of limbs and life,                He did n't think he'd much to brag on;{002}     When wizards o'er the welkin flew;     Ere sciencehad devised balloon;     And 'twas a common thing to view     A fairy ballet by the moon;--     Our hero played his valiant pranks;     Earned loads of _kudos,vulgÃ´_ glory,     A lady, "tin," and lots of thanks;--         Relate, oh Muse! his wondrous story.OF GIANTS IN GENERAL.     A Giant was, I should premise,     Ahulking lout of monstrous size;     He mostly stood--I know you 'll laugh--     About as high as a giraffe.     His waist was some three yards in girth:     When hewalked he shook the earth.     His eyes were of the class called "goggle,"     Fitter for the scowl than ogle.     His mouth, decidedly carnivorous,     Like ashark's,--the Saints deliver us!     He yawned like a huge sarcophagus,     For he was an Anthropophagus,     And his tusks were huge and craggy;     His hair,and his brows, and his beard, were shaggy.{003}     I ween on the whole he was aught but a Cupid,     And exceedingly fierce, and remarkablystupid;              His brain partaking strongly of lead,              How well soe'er he was off for head;              Having frequently one or two              Crania morethan I or you.              He was bare of arm and leg,              But buskins had, and a philabeg;              Also a body-coat of mail              That shone with steel orbrazen scale,              Like to the back of a crocodile's tail;                        A crown he wore,                        And a mace he bore              That was knobbed andspiked with adamant;                        It would smash the skull                        Of the mountain bull,              Or scatter the brains of the elephant.         Hisvoice than the tempest was louder and gruffer--         Well; so much for the uncouth "buffer."JACK'S BIRTH, PARENTAGE, EDUCATION, AND EARLYPURSUITS.               Of a right noble race was Jack,               For kith and kin he did not lack,                    Whom tuneful bards have puffed;               TheSeven bold Champions ranked among               That highly celebrated throng,                    And Riquet with the Tuft.{004}          Jack of the Beanstalk, too, wasone;          And Beauty's Beast; and Valour's son,              Sir Amadis de Gaul:          But if I had a thousand tongues,          A throat of brass, and ironlungs,              I could not sing them all.     His sire was a farmer hearty and free;     He dwelt where the Land's End frowns on the sea,     And the sea at theLand's End roars again,     Tit for tat, land and main.     He was a worthy wight, and so     He brought up his son in the way he should go;     He sought not--nothe!--to make him a "muff;"     He never taught him a parcel of stuff;     He bothered him not with trees and plants,     Nor told him to study the manners ofants.     He himself had never been     Bored with the Saturday Magazine;     The world might be flat, or round, or square,     He knew not, and he did notcare;     Nor wished that a boy of his should be     A Cornish "Infant Prodigy."     But he stored his mind with learning stable,     The deeds of the Knights of thefamed Round Table;     Legends and stories, chants and lays,     Of witches and warlocks, goblins and fays;             How champions of might             Defendedthe right,{005}     Freed the captive, and succoured the damsel distrest              Till Jack would exclaim--     "If I don't do the same,     An' I live to become aman,--_I'm blest!_"     Jack lightly recked of sport or play              Wherein young gentlemen delight,     But he would wrestle any day,     Box, or at backswordfight.     He was a lad of special "pluck,"     And strength beyond his years,          Or science, gave him aye the luck          To drub his young compeers.     Histask assigned, like Giles or Hodge,     The woolly flocks to tend,          His wits to warlike fray or "dodge"          Wool-gathering oft would wend.     And then he'dwink his sparkling eye,     And nod his head right knowingly,         And sometimes "Won't I just!" would cry,         Or "At him, Bill, again!"          Now thisbehaviour did evince          A longing for a foe to mince;          An instinct fitter for a Prince          Than for a shepherd swain.{006}HOW JACK SLEW THE GIANTCORMORAN.---     I.          Where good Saint Michael's craggy mount          Rose Venus-like from out the sea,          A giant dwelt; a mighty- Count          In hisown view, forsooth, was he;          And not unlike one, verily,          (A foreign Count, like those we meet          In Leicester Square, or Regent Street),          Imean with respect to his style of hair,          Mustachios, and beard, and ferocious air,--          His figure was quite another affair.         This odd-looking"bird"         Was a Richard the Third,         Four times taller and five as wide;         Or a clumsy Punch,         With his cudgel and hunch,              Into a monstermagnified!     In quest of prey across the sea     He'd wade, with ponderous club;              For not the slightest "bones" made he              Of "boning" people's"grub."     There was screaming and crying "Oh dear!" and "Oh law     When the terrified maids the monster saw;[Illustration: 019]{007}                 As hestalked--tramp! tramp!                 Stamp! stamp! stamp! stamp!         Coming on like the statue in "Don Giovanni."                 "Oh my!" they wouldcry,                  "Here he comes; let us fly!         Did you ever behold such a horrid old brawny? --                 A--h!" and off they would run                 Like"blazes," or "fun,"         Followed, pell-mell, by man and master;                 While the grisly old fellow                 Would after them bellow,         To make themscamper away the faster.     II.          When this mountain bugaboo          Had filled his belly, what would he do?          He'd shoulder his club with an ox ortwo,          Stick pigs and sheep in his belt a few,--     There were two or three in it, and two or three under     (I hope ye have all the "organ of wonder");     Thenback again to his mountain cave     He would stump o'er the dry land and stride through the wave.     III.                     What was to be done?                     Forthis was no fun;                 And it must be clear to every one,          The new Tariff itself would assuredly not          Have supplied much longer the monstrouspot                 Of this beef-eating, bull-headed, "son-of-a-gun."{008}     IV.     Upon a night as dark as pitch     A light was dancing on the sea;--     Marked itthe track of the Water Witch?     Could it a Jack-a-lantern be?     A lantern it was, and borne by Jack;     A spade and a pickaxe he had at his back;     In his belt agood cow-horn;     He was up to some game you may safely be sworn.     Saint Michael's Mount he quickly gained,     And there the livelong nightremained.                What he did                The darkness hid;     Nor needeth it that I should say:     Nor would you have seen,     If there you hadbeen     Looking on at the break of day.     V.     Morning dawned on the ocean blue;     Shrieked the gull and the wild sea-mew;     The donkey brayed, and thegrey cock crew;     Jack put to his mouth his good cow-horn,     And a blast therewith did blow.     The Giant heard the note of scorn,     And woke and cried"Hallo!"     He popped out his head with his night-cap on,     To look who his friend might be,     And eke his spectacles did don,     That he mote the bettersee.[Illustration: 023]{009}     "I'll broil thee for breakfast," he roared amain,     "For breaking my repose."     "Yaa!" valiant Jack returned again,     With hisfingers at his nose.     VI.     Forward the monster tramps apace,     Like to an elephant running a race;     Like a walking-stick he handles his mace.     Away, tooventurous wight, decamp!     In two more strides your skull he smashes;--     One! Gracious goodness! what a stamp!     Two! Ha! the plain beneath himcrashes:     Down he goes, full fathoms three.     "How feel ye now," cried Jack, "old chap?     It is plain, I wot, to see     You 're by no means up to trap."     TheGiant answered with such a roar,     It was like the Atlantic at war with its shore;     A thousand times worse than the hullaballoo     Of carnivora, fed,     Eregoing to bed,     At the Regent's Park, or the Surrey "Zoo."     "So ho! Sir Giant," said Jack, with a bow,     "Of breakfast art thou fain?     For a tit-bit wilt thoubroil me now,     An' I let thee out again? "     Gnashing his teeth, and rolling his eyes,     The furious lubber strives to rise.     "Don't you wish you may get it?"our hero cries{010}[Illustration: 027]       And he drives the pickaxe into his skull:       Giving him thus a belly-full,                        If the expression is n't abull.     VII.                    Old Cormoran dead,                       Jack cut off his head,       And hired a boat to transport it home.                    On the "bumps" of thebrute,       At the Institute,       A lecture was read by a Mr. Combe.         Their Worships, the Justices of the Peace,         Called the death of the monster a"happy release:"         Sent for the champion who had drubbed him,         And "Jack the Giant Killer" dubbed him;         And they gave him a sword, and abaldric, whereon         For all who could read them, these versicles shone:--            'THIS IS YE VALYANT CORNISHE MAN            WHO SLEWE YE GIANTCORMORAN"{011}[Illustration: 028]JACK SUPRISED ONCE IN THE WAY     I.     Now, as Jack was a lion, and hero of rhymes,     His exploit very soon made anoise in the "Times;"              All over the west              He was _fÃªted_, caressed,     And to dinners and _soirees_ eternally pressed:     Though't is true Giantsdid n't move much in society,     And at "twigging" were slow,     Yet they could n't but know     Of a thing that was matter of such notoriety.     Your Giants werefamous for _esprit de corps_;     And a huge one, whose name was O'Blunderbore,     From the Emerald Isle, who had waded o'er,     Revenge, "by the pow'rs!"on our hero swore.     II.              Sound beneath a forest oak              Was a beardless warrior dozing,              By a babbling rill, that woke              Echo--notthe youth reposing.              What a chance for lady loves              Now to win a "pair of gloves!"{012}     III.     "Wake, champion, wake, be off, be


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Border, Breed Nor Birth, by Dallas McCord ReynoldsThis 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: Border, Breed Nor BirthAuthor: Dallas McCord ReynoldsIllustrator: SchoenherrRelease Date: December 9, 2009 [EBook#30639]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BORDER, BREED NOR BIRTH ***Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks,and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net                         Transcriber's Note:  This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact &Fiction July 1962.  Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.  copyright on this publication was renewed.                       Border, Breed norBirth     Part 1 of Two. Kipling said those things didn't count when     two strong men stood face to face. But ... do they count     when two strong ideologies standface to face...?                           by Mack Reynolds                      Illustrated by Schoenherr       *       *       *       *       *IEl Hassan, would-be tyrant of allNorth Africa, was on the run.His followers at this point numbered six, one of whom was a wisp of atwenty-four year old girl. Arrayed against him and his dream,he knew,was the combined power of the world in the form of the ReunitedNations, and, in addition, such individual powers as the United Statesof the Americas,the Soviet Complex, Common Europe, the FrenchCommunity, the British Commonwealth and the Arab Union, working bothtogether and unilaterally.Immediatesurvival depended upon getting into the Great Erg of theSahara where even the greatest powers the world had ever developedwould have their work cut outlocating El Hassan and his people.       *       *       *       *       *Bey-ag-Akhamouk who was riding next to Elmer Allen in the lead aircushion hover-lorry, held ahand high. Both of the solar powereddesert vehicles ground to a halt.Homer Crawford vaulted out of the seat of the second lorry before ithad settled to the sand."What's up, Bey?" he called.Bey pointed to the south and west. They were in the vicinity ofTessalit, in what was once known as French Sudan, and immediatelytothe south of Algeria. They were deliberately avoiding what littleexisted in this area in the way of trails, the Tanezrouft route whichcrossed the Sahara fromColomb-BÃ©char to Gao, on the Niger, was somefifty miles to the west.Homer Crawford stared up into the sky in the direction Bey pointed andhis face wentwan.The others were piling out of the vehicles."What is it?" Isobel Cunningham said, squinting and trying to catchwhat the others had already spotted."Aircraft,"Bey growled. "A rocket-plane.""Which means the military in this part of the world," Homer said.The rest of them looked to him for instructions, but Bey suddenlytookover. He said to Homer, "You better get on over beneath thatoutcropping of rock. The rest of us will handle this."Homer looked at him.Bey said, flatly, "If oneof the rest of us gets it, or even if all ofus do, the El Hassan movement goes on. But if something happens toyou, the movement dies. We've already taken ourstand and too much isat stake to risk your life."Homer Crawford opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He reachedinside the solar-powered lorry andfetched forth a Tommy-Noiseless andstarted for the rock outcropping at a trot. Having made his decision,he wasn't going to cramp Bey-ag-Akhamouk's style withneedlesspalaver.Isobel Cunningham, Cliff Jackson, Elmer Allen and Kenny Ballalougathered around the tall, American educated Tuareg."What's the plan?" Elmersaid. Either he or Kenny Ballalou could havetaken over as competently, but they were as capable of taking ordersas giving them, a desirable trait in fightingmen.Bey was still staring at the oncoming speck. He growled, "We can'teven hope he hasn't seen the pillars of sand and dust these vehiclesthrow up. He's spottedus all right. And we've got to figure he'slooking for us, even though we can hope he's not."The side of his mouth began to tic, characteristically. "He'll makethreepasses. The first one high, as an initial check. The second timehe'll come in low just to make sure. The third pass and he'll clobberus."The aircraft was coming on,high but nearer now."So," Elmer said reasonably, "we either get him the second pass hemakes, or we've had it." The young Jamaican's lips were thinnedbackover his excellent teeth, as always when he went into combat."That's it," Bey agreed. "Kenny, you and Cliff get the flac rifle, andhave it handy in the back ofthe second truck. Be sure he doesn't seeit on this first pass. Elmer, get on the radio and check anything hesends."Kenny Ballalou and the hulking Cliff Jackson ranto carry out orders.Isobel said, "Got an extra gun for me?"Bey scowled at her. "You better get over there with Homer where it'ssafer."She said evenly, "I'vealways considered myself a pacifist, but whensomebody starts shooting at me, I forget about it and am inclined toshoot back.""I haven't got time to argue withyou," Bey said. "There aren't anyextra guns except handguns and they'd be useless." As he spoke, hepulled his own Tommy-Noiseless from its scabbard on thefront door ofthe air cushion lorry, and checked its clip of two hundred .10 caliberultra-high velocity rounds. He flicked the selector to the explosiveside of theclip.       *       *       *       *       *The plane was roaring in on what would be its first pass, if Bey hadguessed correctly. If he had guessed incorrectly, this mightbe theend. A charge of napalm would fry everything for a quarter of a milearound, or the craft might even be equipped with a mini-fission bomb.In this area aminor nuclear explosion would probably go undetected.Bey yelled, "Don't anybody even try to fire at him at this range.He'll be back. It takes half the sky to turnaround in with thatcrate, but he'll be back, lower next time."Cliff Jackson said cheerlessly, "Maybe he's just looking for us. Hewon't necessarily take a crack atus."Bey grunted. "Elmer?""Nothing on the radio," Elmer said. "If he was just scouting us out,he'd report to his base. But if his orders are to clobber us, thenhewouldn't put it on the air."The plane was turning in the sky, coming back.Cliff argued, "Well, we can't fire unless we know if he's just huntingus out, or trying todo us in."Elmer said patiently, "For just finding us, that first pass would beall he needed. He could radio back that he'd found us. But if he comesin again, he'slooking for trouble.""Here he comes!" Bey yelled. "Kenny-Cliff ... the rifle!"Isobel suddenly dashed out into the sands a dozen yards or so from thevehicles andbegan running around and around in a circle as thoughdemented.Bey stared at her. "Get back here," he roared. "Under one of thetrucks!"She ignored him.Therocket-plane was coming in, low and obviously as slow as the pilotcould retard its speed.The flac rifle began jumping and tracers reached out fromit--inaccurately.The Tommy-Noiseless automatics in the hands of Beyand Elmer Allen gave their silenced _flic flic flic_ sounds, equallyineffective.On the ultra-stubby wings of thefast moving aircraft, a row ofbrilliant cherries flickered and a row of explosive shells plowedacross the desert, digging twin ditches, miraculously going betweentheair cushion lorries but missing both. It was upon them, over andgone, before the men on the ground could turn to fire after.Elmer Allen muttered an obscenityunder his breath.Cliff Jackson looked around in desperation. "What can we do now? Hewon't come close enough for us to even fire at him, next time."Bey saidnothing. Isobel had collapsed into the sand. Elmer Allenlooked over at her. "Nice try, Isobel," he said. "I think he came inlower and slower than he would haveotherwise--trying to see what thedevil it was you were doing."She shrugged, hopelessly."Hey!" Kenny Ballalou pointed.The rocketcraft was wobbling, shuddering,in the sky. Suddenly itburst into a black cloud of fire and smoke and explosion.At the same moment, Homer Crawford got up from the sand dune behindwhichhe'd stationed himself and plowed awkwardly through the sandtoward them.Bey glared at him.Homer shrugged and said, "I checked the way he came in the firsttimeand figured he'd repeat the run. Then I got behind that dune there andfaced in the other direction and started firing where I _thought_ he'dbe, a few secondsbefore he came over. He evidently ran right intoit."Bey said indignantly, "Look, wise guy, you're no longer the leader ofa five-man Reunited Nations AfricanDevelopment Project team. Then,you were expendable. Now, you're El Hassan. You give the orders. Otherpeople are expendable."Homer Crawford grinned athim, somewhat ruefully and held up his handsas though in supplication. "Listen to the man, is that any way to talkto El Hassan?"Elmer Allen said worriedly, "He'sright, though, Homer. You shouldn'ttake chances."Homer Crawford went serious. "Actually, none of us should, if we canavoid it. In a way, El Hassan isn't oneperson. It's this team here,and Jake Armstrong, who by this time I hope is on his way to theStates."Bey was shaking his head in stubborn determination. "No," hesaid."I'm not sure that you comprehend this yourself, Homer, but you'reNumber One. You're the symbol, the hero these people are going tofollow if we put thisthing over. They couldn't understand a sextetleadership. They want a leader, someone to dominate and tell them whatto do. A team you need, admittedly, butnot so much as the team needsyou. Remember Alexander? He had a team starting off with Aristotle fora brain-trust, and Parmenion, one of the greatest generalsof all timefor his right-hand man. Then he had a group of field men such asPtolemy, Antipater, Antigonus and Seleucus--not to be rivaled untilNapoleon built histeam, two thousand years later. And what happenedto this super-team when Alexander died?"Homer looked at him thoughtfully.Bey wound it up doggedly."You're our Alexander. Our Caesar. OurNapoleon. So don't go getting yourself killed, damn it. Excuse me,Isobel."Isobel grinned her pixielike grin. "I agree," shesaid. "Dammit."Homer said, "I'm not sure I go all along with you or not. We'll thinkabout it." His voice took a sharper note. "Let's go over and see ifthere's enoughleft in that wreckage to give us an idea of who thepilot represented. I can't believe it was a Reunited Nations man, andI'd like to know who, of our potentialenemies, dislikes the idea ofEl Hassan so much that they figure we should all be bumped off beforewe even get under way."       *       *       *       *       *It hadbegun--if there is ever a beginning--in Dakar. In the officesof Sven Zetterberg the Swedish head of the Sahara Division of theAfrican Development Project of theReunited Nations.Homer Crawford, head of a five-man trouble-shooting team, had reportedfor orders. In one hand he held them, when he was ushered intotheother's presence.Zetterberg shook hands abruptly, said, "Sit down, Dr. Crawford."Homer Crawford looked at the secretary who had ushered him in.Zetterbergsaid, scowling, "What's the matter?""I think I have something to be discussed privately."The secretary shrugged and turned and left.Zetterberg, still scowling,resumed his own place behind the desk andsaid, "Claud Hansen is a trusted Reunited Nations man. What couldpossibly be so secret...?"Homer indicated the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Zuleika Dobson, by Max BeerbohmThis 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: Zuleika Dobson       or, An Oxford Love StoryAuthor: Max BeerbohmPosting Date: November 25, 2008 [EBook #1845]Release Date:August, 1999Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ZULEIKA DOBSON ***Produced by Judy BossZULEIKA DOBSONor, AN OXFORDLOVE STORYBy Max Beerbohm         NOTE to the 1922 edition         I was in Italy when this book was first published.         A year later (1912) I visited London,and I found         that most of my friends and acquaintances spoke to         me of Zu-like-a--a name which I hardly recognised         and thoroughly disapproved.I had always thought         of the lady as Zu-leek-a. Surely it was thus that         Joseph thought of his Wife, and Selim of his Bride?         And I do hope that it isthus that any reader of         these pages will think of Miss Dobson.                                              M.B.                                              Rapallo, 1922.ILLI ALMAEMATRIZULEIKA DOBSONIThat old bell, presage of a train, had just sounded through Oxfordstation; and the undergraduates who were waiting there, gay figuresintweed or flannel, moved to the margin of the platform and gazed idlyup the line. Young and careless, in the glow of the afternoon sunshine,they struck a sharpnote of incongruity with the worn boards they stoodon, with the fading signals and grey eternal walls of that antiquestation, which, familiar to them andinsignificant, does yet whisper tothe tourist the last enchantments of the Middle Age.At the door of the first-class waiting-room, aloof and venerable, stoodtheWarden of Judas. An ebon pillar of tradition seemed he, in his garbof old-fashioned cleric. Aloft, between the wide brim of his silk hatand the white extent of hisshirt-front, appeared those eyes whichhawks, that nose which eagles, had often envied. He supported his yearson an ebon stick. He alone was worthy of thebackground.Came a whistle from the distance. The breast of an engine was descried,and a long train curving after it, under a flight of smoke. It grewand grew.Louder and louder, its noise foreran it. It became a furious,enormous monster, and, with an instinct for safety, all men recededfrom the platform's margin. (Yetcame there with it, unknown to them,a danger far more terrible than itself.) Into the station it cameblustering, with cloud and clangour. Ere it had yet stopped,the door ofone carriage flew open, and from it, in a white travelling dress, in atoque a-twinkle with fine diamonds, a lithe and radiant creature slippednimbly downto the platform.A cynosure indeed! A hundred eyes were fixed on her, and half as manyhearts lost to her. The Warden of Judas himself had mounted on his noseapair of black-rimmed glasses. Him espying, the nymph darted in hisdirection. The throng made way for her. She was at his side."Grandpapa!" she cried, andkissed the old man on either cheek. (Not ayouth there but would have bartered fifty years of his future for thatsalute.)"My dear Zuleika," he said, "welcome toOxford! Have you no luggage?""Heaps!" she answered. "And a maid who will find it.""Then," said the Warden, "let us drive straight to College." He offeredher hisarm, and they proceeded slowly to the entrance. She chattedgaily, blushing not in the long avenue of eyes she passed through. Allthe youths, under her spell,were now quite oblivious of the relativesthey had come to meet. Parents, sisters, cousins, ran unclaimed aboutthe platform. Undutiful, all the youths were forminga serried suite totheir enchantress. In silence they followed her. They saw her leap intothe Warden's landau, they saw the Warden seat himself upon her left.Norwas it until the landau was lost to sight that they turned--how slowly,and with how bad a grace!--to look for their relatives.Through those slums which connectOxford with the world, the landaurolled on towards Judas. Not many youths occurred, for nearly all--itwas the Monday of Eights Week--were down by the river,cheering thecrews. There did, however, come spurring by, on a polo-pony, a verysplendid youth. His straw hat was encircled with a riband of blue andwhite, andhe raised it to the Warden."That," said the Warden, "is the Duke of Dorset, a member of my College.He dines at my table to-night."Zuleika, turning to regard hisGrace, saw that he had not reined in andwas not even glancing back at her over his shoulder. She gave a littlestart of dismay, but scarcely had her lips pouted erethey curved to asmile--a smile with no malice in its corners.As the landau rolled into "the Corn," another youth--a pedestrian, andvery different--saluted theWarden. He wore a black jacket, rusty andamorphous. His trousers were too short, and he himself was too short:almost a dwarf. His face was as plain as his gaitwas undistinguished.He squinted behind spectacles."And who is that?" asked Zuleika.A deep flush overspread the cheek of the Warden. "That," he said, "isalso amember of Judas. His name, I believe, is Noaks.""Is he dining with us to-night?" asked Zuleika."Certainly not," said the Warden. "Most decidedly not."Noaks,unlike the Duke, had stopped for an ardent retrospect. He gazedtill the landau was out of his short sight; then, sighing, resumed hissolitary walk.The landau wasrolling into "the Broad," over that ground which had onceblackened under the fagots lit for Latimer and Ridley. It rolled pastthe portals of Balliol and of Trinity,past the Ashmolean. From thosepedestals which intersperse the railing of the Sheldonian, the highgrim busts of the Roman Emperors stared down at the fairstranger inthe equipage. Zuleika returned their stare with but a casual glance. Theinanimate had little charm for her.A moment later, a certain old don emergedfrom Blackwell's, where he hadbeen buying books. Looking across the road, he saw, to his amazement,great beads of perspiration glistening on the brows ofthose Emperors.He trembled, and hurried away. That evening, in Common Room, he toldwhat he had seen; and no amount of polite scepticism would convincehimthat it was but the hallucination of one who had been reading too muchMommsen. He persisted that he had seen what he described. It was notuntil two dayshad elapsed that some credence was accorded him.Yes, as the landau rolled by, sweat started from the brows of theEmperors. They, at least, foresaw the perilthat was overhanging Oxford,and they gave such warning as they could. Let that be remembered totheir credit. Let that incline us to think more gently of them.In theirlives we know, they were infamous, some of them--"nihil non commiseruntstupri, saevitiae, impietatis." But are they too little punished, afterall? Here inOxford, exposed eternally and inexorably to heat and frost,to the four winds that lash them and the rains that wear them away, theyare expiating, in effigy, theabominations of their pride and crueltyand lust. Who were lechers, they are without bodies; who were tyrants,they are crowned never but with crowns of snow;who made themselves evenwith the gods, they are by American visitors frequently mistaken forthe Twelve Apostles. It is but a little way down the road that thetwoBishops perished for their faith, and even now we do never pass the spotwithout a tear for them. Yet how quickly they died in the flames! Tothese Emperors,for whom none weeps, time will give no surcease. Surely,it is sign of some grace in them that they rejoiced not, this brightafternoon, in the evil that was to befallthe city of their penance.IIThe sun streamed through the bay-window of a "best" bedroom in theWarden's house, and glorified the pale crayon-portraits on thewall,the dimity curtains, the old fresh chintz. He invaded the many trunkswhich--all painted Z. D.--gaped, in various stages of excavation, aroundthe room. Thedoors of the huge wardrobe stood, like the doors ofJanus' temple in time of war, majestically open; and the sun seized thisopportunity of exploring the mahoganyrecesses. But the carpet, whichhad faded under his immemorial visitations, was now almost ENTIRELYhidden from him, hidden under layers of fair fine linen,layers ofsilk, brocade, satin, chiffon, muslin. All the colours of the rainbow,materialised by modistes, were there. Stacked on chairs were I know notwhat ofsachets, glove-cases, fan-cases. There were innumerable packagesin silver-paper and pink ribands. There was a pyramid of bandboxes.There was a virgin forestof boot-trees. And rustling quickly hither andthither, in and out of this profusion, with armfuls of finery, was anobviously French maid. Alert, unerring, like aswallow she dipped anddarted. Nothing escaped her, and she never rested. She had the air ofthe born unpacker--swift and firm, yet withal tender. Scarce hadherarms been laden but their loads were lying lightly between shelves ortightly in drawers. To calculate, catch, distribute, seemed in her but asingle process. Shewas one of those who are born to make chaos cosmic.Insomuch that ere the loud chapel-clock tolled another hour all thetrunks had been sent empty away. Thecarpet was unflecked by any scrapof silver-paper. From the mantelpiece, photographs of Zuleika surveyedthe room with a possessive air. Zuleika's pincushion,a-bristle withnew pins, lay on the dimity-flounced toilet-table, and round it stooda multitude of multiform glass vessels, domed, all of them, with dullgold, onwhich Z. D., in zianites and diamonds, was encrusted. Ona small table stood a great casket of malachite, initialled in likefashion. On another small table stoodZuleika's library. Both books werein covers of dull gold. On the back of one cover BRADSHAW, in beryls,was encrusted; on the back of the other, A.B.C. GUIDE, inamethysts,beryls, chrysoprases, and garnets. And Zuleika's great cheval-glassstood ready to reflect her. Always it travelled with her, in a greatcase speciallymade for it. It was framed in ivory, and of fluted ivorywere the slim columns it swung between. Of gold were its twin sconces,and four tall tapers stood in each ofthem.The door opened, and the Warden, with hospitable words, left hisgrand-daughter at the threshold.Zuleika wandered to her mirror. "Undress me, Melisande,"she said. Likeall who are wont to appear by night before the public, she had the habitof resting towards sunset.Presently Melisande withdrew. Her mistress, in awhite peignoir tiedwith a blue sash, lay in a great chintz chair, gazing out of thebay-window. The quadrangle below was very beautiful, with its walls ofruggedgrey, its cloisters, its grass carpet. But to her it was of nomore interest than if it had been the rattling court-yard to one ofthose hotels in which she spent her life.She saw it, but heeded it not.She seemed to be thinking of herself, or of something she desired, or ofsome one she had never met. There was ennui, and therewas wistfulness,in her gaze. Yet one would have guessed these things to be transient--tobe no more than the little shadows that sometimes pass between abrightmirror and the brightness it reflects.Zuleika was not strictly beautiful. Her eyes were a trifle large, andtheir lashes longer than they need have been. Ananarchy of small curlswas her chevelure, a dark upland of misrule, every hair asserting itsrights over a not discreditable brow. For the rest, her features werenot


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Castle of Otranto, by Horace Walpole,Edited by Henry MorleyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost andwithalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook oronline at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Castle of OtrantoAuthor: Horace WalpoleEditor: Henry MorleyRelease Date: May 5, 2012  [eBook #696][This file was firstposted on October 22, 1996]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CASTLE OFOTRANTO***Transcribed from the 1901 Cassell and Company edition by David Price,email ccx074@pglaf.org                        CASSELLâS NATIONALLIBRARY                               (New Series)                                * * * * *                                   THE                            CASTLE OFOTRANTO.                                * * * * *                                    BY                             HORACE WALPOLE.                      [Picture: Decorativegraphic]                       CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED                _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK &MELBOURNE_                                   1901INTRODUCTIONHORACE WALPOLE was the youngest son of Sir Robert Walpole, the greatstatesman, who died Earl ofOrford.  He was born in 1717, the year inwhich his father resigned office, remaining in opposition for almostthree years before his return to a long tenure ofpower.  Horace Walpolewas educated at Eton, where he formed a school friendship with ThomasGray, who was but a few months older.  In 1739 Graywastravelling-companion with Walpole in France and Italy until they differedand parted; but the friendship was afterwards renewed, and remained firmto theend.  Horace Walpole went from Eton to Kingâs College, Cambridge,and entered Parliament in 1741, the year before his fatherâs finalresignation andacceptance of an earldom.  His way of life was made easyto him.  As Usher of the Exchequer, Comptroller of the Pipe, and Clerk ofthe Estreats in the Exchequer,he received nearly two thousand a year fordoing nothing, lived with his father, and amused himself.Horace Walpole idled, and amused himself with the small lifeof thefashionable world to which he was proud of belonging, though he had aquick eye for its vanities.  He had social wit, and liked to put it tosmall uses.  But hewas not an empty idler, and there were seasons whenhe could become a sharp judge of himself.  âI am sensible,â he wrote tohis most intimate friend,âI am sensible of having more follies andweaknesses and fewer real good qualities than most men.  I sometimesreflect on this, though, I own, too seldom.  Ialways want to beginacting like a man, and a sensible one, which I think I might be if Iwould.â  He had deep home affections, and, under manypoliteaffectations, plenty of good sense.Horace Walpoleâs father died in 1745.  The eldest son, who succeeded tothe earldom, died in 1751, and left a son,George, who was for a timeinsane, and lived until 1791.  As George left no child, the title andestates passed to Horace Walpole, then seventy-four years old, andtheonly uncle who survived.  Horace Walpole thus became Earl of Orford,during the last six years of his life.  As to the title, he said that hefelt himself being callednames in his old age.  He died unmarried, inthe year 1797, at the age of eighty.He had turned his house at Strawberry Hill, by the Thames, nearTwickenham, intoa Gothic villaâeighteenth-century Gothicâand amusedhimself by spending freely upon its adornment with such things as werethen fashionable as objectsof taste.  But he delighted also in hisflowers and his trellises of roses, and the quiet Thames.  When confinedby gout to his London house in Arlington Street,flowers from StrawberryHill and a bird were necessary consolations.  He set up also atStrawberry Hill a private printing press, at which he printed hisfriendGrayâs poems, also in 1758 his own âCatalogue of the Royal and NobleAuthors of England,â and five volumes of âAnecdotes of PaintinginEngland,â between 1762 and 1771.Horace Walpole produced _The Castle of Otranto_ in 1765, at the matureage of forty-eight.  It was suggested by adream from which he said hewaked one morning, and of which âall I could recover was, that I hadthought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dreamfor a head likemine, filled with Gothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of agreat staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour.  In the evening I satdownand began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended tosay or relate.â  So began the tale which professed to be translated byâWilliamMarshal, gentleman, from the Italian of Onuphro Muralto, canonof the Church of St. Nicholas, at Otranto.â  It was written in twomonths.  Walpoleâs friendGray reported to him that at Cambridge the bookmade âsome of them cry a little, and all in general afraid to go to bedoâ nights.â  _The Castle ofOtranto_ was, in its own way, an early signof the reaction towards romance in the latter part of the last century.This gives it interest.  But it has had manyfollowers, and the hardymodern reader, when he readâs Grayâs note from Cambridge, needs to bereminded of itsdate.                                                                     H. M.PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholicfamilyin the north of England.  It was printed at Naples, in the black letter,in the year 1529.  How much sooner it was written does not appear.  Theprincipalincidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages ofChristianity; but the language and conduct have nothing that savours ofbarbarism.  The style is thepurest Italian.If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to havehappened, it must have been between 1095, the era of the first Crusade,and1243, the date of the last, or not long afterwards.  There is noother circumstance in the work that can lead us to guess at the period inwhich the scene is laid: thenames of the actors are evidentlyfictitious, and probably disguised on purpose: yet the Spanish names ofthe domestics seem to indicate that this work was notcomposed until theestablishment of the Arragonian Kings in Naples had made Spanishappellations familiar in that country.  The beauty of the diction, andthe zealof the author (moderated, however, by singular judgment) concurto make me think that the date of the composition was little antecedentto that of theimpression.  Letters were then in their most flourishingstate in Italy, and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, atthat time so forcibly attacked by thereformers.  It is not unlikely thatan artful priest might endeavour to turn their own arms on theinnovators, and might avail himself of his abilities as an authortoconfirm the populace in their ancient errors and superstitions.  If thiswas his view, he has certainly acted with signal address.  Such a work asthe followingwould enslave a hundred vulgar minds beyond half the booksof controversy that have been written from the days of Luther to thepresent hour.This solution of theauthorâs motives is, however, offered as a mereconjecture.  Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the executionof them might have, his work canonly be laid before the public atpresent as a matter of entertainment.  Even as such, some apology for itis necessary.  Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, andotherpreternatural events, are exploded now even from romances.  That was notthe case when our author wrote; much less when the story itself issupposed tohave happened.  Belief in every kind of prodigy was soestablished in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful tothe manners of the times, who shouldomit all mention of them.  He is notbound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors asbelieving them.If this air of the miraculous is excused, thereader will find nothingelse unworthy of his perusal.  Allow the possibility of the facts, andall the actors comport themselves as persons would do in theirsituation.There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessarydescriptions.  Everything tends directly to the catastrophe.  Never isthereaderâs attention relaxed.  The rules of the drama are almostobserved throughout the conduct of the piece.  The characters are welldrawn, and still bettermaintained.  Terror, the authorâs principalengine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and it is so oftencontrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in aconstant vicissitude ofinteresting passions.Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too littleserious for the general cast of the story; butbesides their oppositionto the principal personages, the art of the author is very observable inhis conduct of the subalterns.  They discover many passagesessential tothe story, which could not be well brought to light but by their_naÃ¯vetÃ©_ and simplicity.  In particular, the womanish terror and foiblesof Bianca, inthe last chapter, conduce essentially towards advancing thecatastrophe.It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adoptedwork.  More impartialreaders may not be so much struck with the beautiesof this piece as I was.  Yet I am not blind to my authorâs defects.  Icould wish he had grounded his planon a more useful moral than this:that âthe sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third andfourth generation.â  I doubt whether, in his time,any more than atpresent, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of soremote a punishment.  And yet this moral is weakened by that lessdirectinsinuation, that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St.Nicholas.  Here the interest of the Monk plainly gets the better of thejudgment ofthe author.  However, with all its faults, I have no doubtbut the English reader will be pleased with a sight of this performance.The piety that reigns throughout,the lessons of virtue that areinculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work fromthe censure to which romances are but too liable.  Should itmeet withthe success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint the originalItalian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour.  Our languagefalls far shortof the charms of the Italian, both for variety andharmony.  The latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative.  It isdifficult in English to relate without fallingtoo low or rising toohigh; a fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak purelanguage in common conversation.  Every Italian or Frenchman of anyrankpiques himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with choice.  Icannot flatter myself with having done justice to my author in thisrespect: his style isas elegant as his conduct of the passions ismasterly.  It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to what theywere evidently proper forâthe theatre.I willdetain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark.  Thoughthe machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, Icannot but believe thatthe groundwork of the story is founded on truth.The scene is undoubtedly laid in some real castle.  The author seemsfrequently, without design, to describe


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                             THE BEST EXOTIC MARIGOLD HOTEL                                      Written by                                      Ol Parker          Based on thebook THESE FOOLISH THINGS by Deborah Moggach                                                                                10/01/11                                                                           1 OVER BLACK 1          Muffled music; soothing, generic.                         AUTOMATEDVOICE          Thank you for your patience.          Your call is important to us. We          will be with you shortly.          2 INT. MANSION FLAT, LONDON -DAY 2          A neat, well-appointed flat, tastefully decorated. Framed          against a large window which looks out over the city, an          elegant womanin her 70's: EVELYN GREENSLADE. She's on the          phone, on hold.          On the desk in front of her is a brand new laptop computer;          the screen reads'Getting Started ...'                         AUTOMATED VOICE                         (ON PHONE)          Thank you for your patience.          Your call isimportant to us. We          will be with you shortly.          Evelyn's patience is strained nonetheless. She taps her          fingers on the desk.          AUTOMATEDVOICE (cont'd)                         (ON PHONE)          Thank you for your patience.          Your call is -          A slightly-accented voice finallyinterrupts.                         FEMALE VOICE          Mrs Greenslade, thank you for                         WAITING