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Actor Tony Curtis dies at Las Vegas home – TheDamienZone liked him.
Home → Damien Zone → Actor Tony Curtis dies at Las Vegas home – TheDamienZone liked him.
LAS VEGAS – The Clark County coroner says actor Tony Curtis has died.
Coroner Mike Murphy says Curtis died at 9:25 p.m. MDT Wednesday at his Las Vegas area home of a cardiac arrest.
Curtis, who had heart bypass surgery in 1994, began his acting career as a 1950s heartthrob but became a respected actor with such films as<|fim_middle|>SEY SHORE" fears that Mel Gibson hates Guidos. | "The Defiant Ones" and "Sweet Smell of Success.
"The Defiant Ones" brought him an Oscar nomination in 1958 for his portrayal of a racist escaped convict handcuffed to a black escapee, Sidney Poitier. The following year, he co-starred in one of the most acclaimed film comedies ever, Billy Wilder's "Some Like It Hot."
We at TheDeminZone especially liked Tony because he once sent over a nice bottle of wine to our table at Spago just because earlier that evening we had done him a small favor at the bar by moving down one seat so as to make room for his guest. He didn't have to do that.
Bluefin Removed From Sinju's Menu - Replaced With Sperm Whale Eyes.
Cast of "JER | 164 |
\section{Introduction}
Rescue missions can be regarded as life-saving, delivering valuable properties, and tackling necessary facilities in disaster or emergency scenarios, including complex, hazardous, uncertain, unstructured, dynamical changing, and adversarial environments. Multi-Robot System (MRS) working in such situations requires rapid response, high adaptation, and strong robustness, reducing the losses in the post-disaster scenarios. Research in robot-aided USAR aims to increase the mission success rate, improve execution efficiency, and minimize system cost during the rescue missions.
Fig. \ref{fig: overview} illustrates an example real-world use-case of MRS in a post-earthquake scenario, where we represent teams of three different robot types - \textit{Carrier}, \textit{Supplier}, and \textit{Observer} - aiding the first responders in close collaboration.
Disasters are defined as discrete meteorological, geological, or man-made events that exceed local resources to respond and contain \cite{Murphy2016}.
From the robot's needs \cite{yang2020hierarchical} and motivations perspective, we can classify Adversaries into two general categories in disaster or adversarial environments. One is Intentional (such as enemy or intelligent opponent agent, which consciously and actively impairs the MAS needs and capabilities), and the other is Unintentional (like obstacles and weather, which unaware and passively threaten MAS abilities) adversary.\cite{yang2020gut}.
We are specifically interested in the MRS collective tackling the \textit{Unintentional Adversary} in hazardous and disaster scenarios. So the environment models for rescue missions are grounded in two different aspects: individual perception and data sharing across the robots.
Considering individual perception, we emphasize cooperation among heterogeneous groups of robots \cite{stone2000multiagent}. Each robot class might have different sensors and capabilities to perceive and interact with the environment and corresponding actuators to execute their action. Individual robots present their observations from different angles describing the partial part in the global map.
Regarding system data sharing, each robot in the current group needs to update its situation awareness from other group members' information. It can not only help in collectively building a global map \cite{rizk2019cooperative} but also be a foundation for communication between the agents to achieve consensus \cite{parasuraman2018multipoint} or \textit{Negotiation} \cite{yang2020hierarchical}.
\begin{figure}[tbp]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.48\textwidth]{./figures/heter_cooper_1.png}
\caption{Illustration of an integrated team of robots (UGVs + UAVs) and human cooperatively working together in a post-earthquake rescue mission.}
\label{fig: overview}
\end{figure}
It is essential to understand how to combine a team of mobile robots to achieve a successful search and rescue mission, especially from a heterogeneity point of view and through needs-driven cooperation among robots. Therefore, in this paper, we analyze the association between heterogeneous robots with different capabilities and needs for MRS collaboration and teamwork. Specifically, we make the following contributions in this paper:
\begin{itemize}
\item We generalize the rescue mission's problem using different groups of robots, such as Carrier, Supplier, and Observer. We formalize the multi-robot cooperation through robot needs hierarchy encoded in a Behavior Tree \cite{colledanchise2018behavior} structure;
\item We theoretically analyze the rescue robot teaming from two perspectives: \textit{Utility} achieved by the robot group and \textit{Energy} consumed by the group.
\item We verify the theoretical results through simulations with different teams of homogeneous and heterogeneous robots deployed to a rescue mission.
\end{itemize}
\begin{figure}[tbp]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.5\textwidth]{./figures/bt.png}
\caption{Behavior Tree representing hierarchy of robot needs at every robot. $[?]$ - Selector Node, $[\dashrightarrow]$ - Sequence Node, $Con$ - Conditions, $Act$ - Actions, $Pe$ - Perception, $Sa$ - Safety, $BN$ - Basic Needs, $Ca$ - Capability, $U$ - Utility, $Pl$ - Plan, $Ne$ - Negotiation, $A\&E$ - Agreement and Execution.}
\label{fig: bt}
\end{figure}
\section{Related Works and Projects}
\label{sec:relatedwork}
An intelligent agent is a physical (robot) or virtual (software program) entity that can autonomously perform actions on an environment while perceiving this environment to accomplish a goal \cite{russell2002artificial}.
Cooperation in multiple intelligent agents (robots) working in a disaster environment is a interesting and challenging problem \cite{Murphy2016, jorge2019survey}. Most research focus on the problems of environmental monitoring \cite{byrne2012study, bayat2017environmental, marques2015critical}, structure inspection \cite{moud2018current, lattanzi2017review}, navigation and control \cite{fossen2000survey, ashrafiuon2010review, campbell2012review,luo2019multi} and higher-level autonomy \cite{schiaretti2017survey, thompson2019review}.
Also, there are various advancements in rescue robotics through the development of heterogeneous robot teaming methods in disaster response scenarios \cite{kruijff2015tradr, 6719323, marconi2013ground,nourbakhsh2005human}, disaster detection \cite{liu2016usv, fornai2016autonomous}, disaster monitoring \cite{vasilijevic2017coordinated, guerrero2016multirobot}, target tracking \cite{rathour2015sea, fahad2017evaluation}, victims detection \cite{cardona2019robot}, and reinforcement learning based semi-autonomous controller for urban search and rescue missions \cite{magid2020artificial}.
Considering grouping robots with various capabilities cooperating to pursue specific goals (rescue missions), less literature study the integration of organizing agents' behaviors, solving the conflicts, optimizing system utility, and boosting system adaptability and robustness for the entire group \cite{yang2018grand, rizk2019cooperative}. On the other hand, there is little research done from the agent's needs perspective studying individual interaction and behaviors for system performance (group utility) and global actions in MRS, especially in disaster robotics \cite{mrs2019,yang2020hierarchical,geihs2020engineering}.
To address those gaps, we build upon our work in \cite{yang2020hierarchical, mrs2019}, where we represent complex relationships between different types of robots through their immediate needs and motivations. It helps the system to balance and optimize the utilities between the individual and the whole group.
We encode the individual robot needs hierarchy in the robot automated planner represented through a Behavior Tree structure \cite{colledanchise2018behavior, colledanchise2018learning}. Then we analyze the MRS group performance by theoretically deriving and comparing the group utility and their energy cost applied to a USAR mission. Also, the \textit{Human-Robot} mixed teaming by combining human and robot needs will benefit from the study. More importantly, it can improve system adaptability and solve more complex tasks. On the other hand, it helps individual self-upgrade and self-evolution of the whole system through \textit{Adaptation Learning} from interaction and experience between robots and humans.
\section{Needs-driven Model for Robot Cooperation}
\label{sec:needsmodel}
In nature, from cell to human, all intelligent agents represent different kinds of hierarchical needs such as the low-level physiological needs (food and water) in microbe and animal; the high-level needs self-actualization (creative activities) in human being \cite{maslow1943theory}. Simultaneously, intelligent agents can cooperate or against each other based on their specific needs. As an artificial intelligence agent -- robot, to organize its behaviors and actions, we introduced the needs hierarchy of robots in \cite{yang2020hierarchical} to help MRS build cooperative strategies considering their individual and common needs. Specifically, the robots possess the following order of needs hierarchy: Safety needs (avoid collisions, safe environment, etc.); Basic needs (Energy, time, mobility, etc.); Capability needs (task-specific such as carry or supply resources); Teaming needs (enhancing group utility and group survival); and Learning needs (self-upgrade and evolution).
Since the robot needs to rescue the victims from the disaster or cooperate with people to fulfill rescue missions together, the robot's lowest level needs should guarantee human safety and security. This kind of condition reflex or self-reactive behavior<|fim_middle|>_cs_com} and \eqref{he_cso_com} respectively.
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{hc}) - \mathbb{E}(E_{hs})} = 0
\label{he_cs_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{hc}) - \mathbb{E}(E_{ho})} & = \mathbb{E}(E_{hs}) - \mathbb{E}(E_{ho}) = \\
& \frac{2cn}{3m \times sen_{c}}e_c + 3mkt_n(\frac{1 - e^{-\lambda_{hc}}}{\lambda_{hc}} \\
& - \frac{1 - e^{-\lambda_{ho}}}{\lambda_{ho}})
\label{he_cso_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
Through the above discussion, if we assume that \textit{Observers} also does not concern about their energy cost (\textit{Basic Needs}) in the entire rescue mission, they will have the best performance comparing with other groups. Actually, in reality, the energy level and consumption rate of \textit{Observer}, like the drone, are much lower and faster than \textit{Carrier} and \textit{Supplier} correspondingly, which means that \textit{Observer} need to waste lots of time to charge. Considering this issue, we assume that these three groups have a similar performance generally to simplify our calculation.
\textit{b. \textit{Heterogeneous vs Heterogeneous}}
Similarly, considering involving \textit{Observers} in the group, the entire group sensing range approach infinity. And according to the assumption Eq. \eqref{com}, \eqref{sen}, \eqref{res} and \eqref{cap}, we can estimate the heterogeneous comparison of the expectation amount of rescued agents as Eq. \eqref{er_com}.
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(U_{e1})} :~& \mathbb{E}(U_{e2}) : \mathbb{E}(U_{e3}) : \mathbb{E}(U_{e4}) \approx \\
& \frac{\lambda_{e0}(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e1}})}{\lambda_{e1}(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e0}})} : \frac{x \times res_c + z \times res_o}{x \times cap_c \cap y \times res_s} : \\
& \frac{y \times cap_s + z \times cap_o}{x \times cap_c \cap y \times res_s} : 1,~~~\lambda_{e0} = \frac{2l}{v_c}
\label{er_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
The corresponding group expected energy cost comparison is shown as Eq. \eqref{ee_12_com}, \eqref{ee_23_com} and \eqref{ee_24_com}.
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{e1}) - \mathbb{E}(E_{e2})} \approx & \frac{2cn}{3m \times sen_{c}}e_c + \\
& t_n((x \times cap_c \cap y \times res_s)\frac{1 - e^{-\lambda_{e1}}}{\lambda_{e1}} \\
& - 3mk\frac{1 - e^{-\lambda_{e0}}}{\lambda_{e0}}) > 0
\label{ee_12_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{e2}) - \mathbb{E}(E_{e3})} = 0
\label{ee_23_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{e2}) - \mathbb{E}(E_{e4})} \approx & t_n\frac{1 - e^{-\lambda_{e0}}}{\lambda_{e0}}(3mk - \\
& (x \times cap_c \cap y \times res_s)) > 0
\label{ee_24_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
According to Eq. \eqref{er_com}, \eqref{ee_12_com}, \eqref{ee_23_com} and \eqref{ee_24_com}, we can notice that the performance of the low bound and the high bound in those groups are the combination of \textit{(Carrier \& Supplier)} and \textit{(Carrier \& Supplier \& Observer)} respectively.
\textit{c. \textit{Homogeneous vs Heterogeneous}}
As the above discussion, at this stage, we compare the performance between low bound of heterogeneous cooperation system and homogeneous cooperation system as Eq. \eqref{ehr_com} and \eqref{ehe_com}.
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(U_{e1}) : \mathbb{E}(U_{hc})} \approx \frac{x \times cap_c \cap y \times res_s}{3m \times res_c} > 1
\label{ehr_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{e1}) - \mathbb{E}(E_{hc})} \approx & t_n\frac{1 - e^{-\lambda_{e1}}}{\lambda_{e1}}((x \times cap_c \cap y \times res_s) \\
& - 3mk)) < 0
\label{ehe_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
According to Eq. \eqref{ehr_com}, we can notice that the \textit{Expectation Utility} of heterogeneous cooperation system is larger than the homogeneous cooperation system. Also, Eq. \eqref{ehe_com} shows that the homogeneous cooperation system's energy cost is higher than the heterogeneous system.
\begin{figure*}[tbp]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=1\textwidth]{./figures/scenarios.pdf}
\caption{Illustration of the four scenarios with homogeneous and heterogeneous team of \textit{Carrier} (UGV) and \textit{Observer} (UAV) in a rescue mission simulation. Scenario 3 is non-cooperative (NC) between the UGVs and UAVs and Sc. 4 is cooperative (C) between the different type of robots.}
\label{fig: rescuing_scenarios}
\end{figure*}
\begin{figure}[tbp]
\centering
\includegraphics[width=0.5\textwidth]{./figures/data_merge.png}
\caption{The analysis of experiments' results on homogeneous and heterogeneous MRS cooperation in simulation.}
\label{fig: data_merge}
\end{figure}
\section{Numerical Evaluation}
To simulate the above problem, we use "Unity" game engine and build a simple scenario (see Fig. \ref{fig: rescuing_scenarios}) to verify our results. We design two kinds of experiments -- \textit{Homogeneous} and \textit{Heterogeneous} MRS Cooperation and consider two categories of robots -- \textit{Carrier} and \textit{Observer} implemented in the specific experiments. Video demonstration of the experiments is available at \url{http://hero.uga.edu/research/heterogeneous-cooperation/}.
We suppose the common category has the same battery level in the initial state, and in every moving step, carrier and observer will cost 0.045\% and 0.015\% energy separately. To simplify the group utility's visualization, we do not consider any obstacles, rescue resource requirement Eq. \eqref{res}, and communication energy cost. We design four scenarios -- homogeneous part simulates six carriers (Car) and six observers (Obs) fulfilling rescue mission correspondingly and considering three carriers and three observers cooperation (C) and non-cooperation (NC) for heterogeneous MRS. We also implement a simple \textit{Negotiation-Agreement Mechanism} \cite{yang2020hierarchical, mrs2019} to avoid the collision in the whole process.
To compare the performance of \textit{Homogeneous} and \textit{Heterogeneous} MRS in the experiments, we calculate the amount rescuers (Group Utility) and the average energy cost per rescuing unit in five minutes Eq. \eqref{rescue_mission_problem}. Considering observer limited energy store (basic needs) Eq. \eqref{eng}, we assume that if the individual energy level is below 30\%, it needs to go to rest place charging 10 seconds, then back to work. Also, we assume the observer can perceive the whole map. In the homogeneous scenarios, due to working in an uncertain environment with limited perception range, the carrier's velocity is equal to a tenth of the observer's speed for avoiding uncertainty risks and satisfying its safety needs Eq. \eqref{vel}. But with the observers' assist in heterogeneous MRS cooperation, carriers can share information with observers, enlarge their perception range and double their velocity. And observers will decrease half of the speed to adapt carriers' involvement. Each carrier and observer can rescue eight and one units respectively in each round Eq. \eqref{cap}. For a non-cooperation heterogeneous system, the two groups do not interact and fulfill the mission separately.
According to the above assumption, we conduct ten simulation trials for each scenario. Fig. \ref{fig: data_merge} shows the number of rescuers and average energy cost per rescuing unit, respectively. For the homogeneous MRS cooperation, comparing with the performance of group carrier and observer separately, although observer can achieve higher group utility (the amount rescuers) than carrier \ref{fig: data_merge}(a1) in a limited time Eq. \eqref{hr_com}, the average energy cost per rescuing unit represents more consumption \ref{fig: data_merge}(a2). On the other hand, for the heterogeneous MRS, the non-cooperation system shows a medial performance comparing with the different three scenarios, which does not offer distinguished advantages. Generally speaking, the heterogeneous MRS cooperation not only delivers more excellent group utility Eq. \eqref{ehr_com} and less system cost Eq. \eqref{ehe_com} from the system perspective, but also saves more cost per rescuing unit from the individual angle.
More importantly, from the statistical perspective (Fig. \ref{fig: data_merge}), comparing with the rest of the scenarios, the heterogeneous cooperation system decreases performance uncertainty (deviation between trials) and provides more stability and robustness for the whole system. It can help the system adapting more complex and uncertain environments efficiently and presents more robust viability.
\section{Application to Human-Robot Teaming}
\label{sec:humanrobotteaming}
As the higher-level intelligent creature globally, humans represent more complex and diversified needs such as personal security, health, friendship, love, respect, recognition, and so forth. When we consider humans and robots work as a team, organizing their needs and getting a common ground is a precondition for human-robot collaboration in urban search and rescue missions.
From a robot needs perspective, it first needs to guarantee human security and health, such as avoiding collision with humans, protecting them from radiation, and so forth. But in the higher level teaming needs, robots should consider human team members' specialty and capability to form corresponding heterogeneous \textit{Human-Robot} team adapting specific rescue missions automatically.
Humans also expect robots to provide safety and a stable working environment in aiding rescue missions from human needs. Furthermore, efficient and reliable assistance plays an essential element for the entire rescue missions. More importantly, designing an \textit{Interruption Mechanism} can help humans interrupt robots' current actions and re-organize them to fulfill specific emergency tasks or execute some crucial operations manually.
The individual robot learning model can be regarded as constructing models of the other agents, which takes as input some portion of the observed interaction history, and returns a prediction of some property of interest regarding the modeled agent \cite{albrecht2018autonomous}. In our future work, we enable robots to learn and adapt to human needs and keep up trust and rapport between humans and robots, which are critical for the task efficiency and safety improvement \cite{nourbakhsh2005human}.
Here, the adaptive learning of \textit{Human-Robot Interaction} will be pursued along the following lines:
\begin{itemize}
\item Adopting suitable formation to perceive and survey environments predicting threats (and warn human team members) and explore new rescue tasks.
\item Reasonable path planning adaptation in various scenarios avoid collision guaranteeing human security and decreasing human working environment interference.
\item Combining the specific capabilities and needs of robots and humans, calculating sensible strategies to organize the entire group collaboration fulfilling corresponding rescue mission efficiently.
\end{itemize}
Using the above line of thought, assume we can model the human needs and find a way to calculate the expected utility of the human member in a human-robot team, then the proposed framework can be applied to a human-robot team by integrating the human needs with robot needs and capabilities specified in Sec.~\ref{sec:problem}. It is expected to result in a harmonious teaming with heterogeneous agents (humans/robots) in achieving common goals.
\section{Conclusion}
We presented an overview of the needs-driven cooperation model for heterogeneous multi-robot systems and theoretically analyzed the importance of heterogeneity in increasing rescue mission performance. We advanced the robot needs hierarchy established in our earlier work, formalized the general rescue mission, and categorized the robots in USAR missions as carriers, suppliers, and observers.
We theoretically evaluated the system's performance in terms of the group utility and energy cost to achieve the rescue mission in a limited time. We proved that the needs-drive cooperation in a heterogeneous robot system enabled higher group utility than a homogeneous robot system. We also demonstrated the advantages of needs-driven heterogeneous cooperation through simulation experiments involving two groups of robots, namely carriers (UGVs) and observers (UAVs) in our experiment design. The results verified that heterogeneous multi-robot cooperation increased group utility and robustness and decreased energy costs and performance uncertainties compared to the homogeneous multi-robot grouping for the same task execution.
Future work will focus on extending this work to human-robot teaming and how the system as a whole can enable self-learning at the robot-level.
\bibliographystyle{IEEEtran}
| in robots can be represented as fundamental control issues like collision avoidance. After satisfying the safety needs, the robot requires enough basic needs, like battery, oil, to support executing relative operations. Then, by comparing their capabilities and the task requirements, they will select how to cooperate maximizing the success rate in rescue missions, and optimize or sub-optimize individual and system \textit{utility}.
To fulfill a high level needs satisfying individual or group's \textit{expectation utilities} \cite{yang2020gut}, different categories of robots consider working as one or several teams to maximize corresponding utilities or rewards efficiently. When assigned with new rescue tasks or encounter emergency events like some group members run out of battery, robots need to re-organize the group adapting to the current situation minimizing the cost and loss. Fig.~\ref{fig: bt} presents an individual robot hierarchy of needs encoded in the form of a state-of-the-art state-action planner called Behavior Trees \cite{colledanchise2018behavior}.
In rescue missions, we consider the \textit{Group's Utility} as the number of lives (victims) or valuable properties saved and rescued as much as possible in a limited time. In the entire process, robots need to consider exploring the uncertain area, tackling the \textit{unintentional adversaries} like obstacles, wind, rain, and so on, repairing necessary facilities, treating injurers, carrying victims and properties to a safe place.
\section{Formalization and Evaluation}
This section first formalizes the rescue problem and uses mathematical approaches to prove our hypothesis that cooperation in heterogeneous robot system produce better performance in general than the cooperation limited to a homogeneous robot system, with rescue mission as an example application domain.
Consider the following example. Supposing a group of heterogeneous robots executes the search and rescue mission in a post-disaster scenario. The robot's categories can be generally classified as follows.
\begin{itemize}
\item \textbf{Carrier:} Their main function is carrying injurers and valuable properties from hazardous areas to shelter.
\item \textbf{Supplier:} Providing various resources for rescue missions such as medicine, food, repairing robots, rescue devices, communication support, and so forth.
\item \textbf{Observer:} They are good at surveying and acquiring real-time and dynamical rescue information from the disaster environment.
\end{itemize}
\subsection{Problem Statement}
\label{sec:problem}
As discussed in Sec. \ref{sec:needsmodel}, we assume that the number of \textit{Carrier}, \textit{Supplier} and \textit{Observer} are $x$, $y$ and $z$ ($x, y, z \in Z^+$), respectively. We define the individual capability space according to the robot needs model through the below equations.
\begin{eqnarray}
& Carrier := C_C(v_c, com_c, sen_c, eng_c, res_c, cap_c); \label{carrier} \\
& Supplier := C_S(v_s, com_s, sen_s, eng_s, res_s, cap_s); \label{supplier} \\
& Observer := C_O(v_o, com_o, sen_o, eng_o, res_o, cap_o). \label{observer}
\end{eqnarray}
Here,
\begin{itemize}
\item $v$ represents agent's max velocity;
\item $com$ and $sen$ represent the range of agent's communication and sensing separately;
\item $eng$ represents agent's energy level;
\item $res$ represents the amount of rescue resource which agent can provide;
\item $cap$ represents agent's the capacity level.
\end{itemize}
Since each type of robot specialize in different capability, we can assume Eqs. \eqref{com}, \eqref{sen}, \eqref{vel}, \eqref{eng}, \eqref{res}, \eqref{cap} showing the dominance of each robot type (denoted with subscripts $c,s,o$ to represent carrier, supplier, and observer robots, respectively) in different capabilities in terms of sensing and communication ranges, energy level capacities, etc.
\textit{Robot Safety Needs:}
\begin{eqnarray}
& com_o \gg com_s \approx com_c; \label{com} \\
& sen_o \gg sen_s \approx sen_c; \label{sen} \\
& v_o > v_s \approx v_c; \label{vel}
\end{eqnarray}
\textit{Robot Basic Needs:}
\begin{eqnarray}
eng_c > eng_s \gg eng_o \label{eng}
\end{eqnarray}
\textit{Robot Capabilities for Rescue Mission Requirement:}
\begin{eqnarray}
& res_s \gg res_c > res_o; \label{res} \\
& cap_c \gg cap_s > cap_o; \label{cap}
\end{eqnarray}
Supposing rescue mission $T$ has requirement space $TC = (C_1, C_2, ... , C_m),~m \in Z^+$, where $C_i$ represents different capabilities expected required to achieve a given global task and $m$ is the capacity of the required to satisfy the tasks. We assume that the heterogeneous group capabilities for rescue mission requirements is $C_G = (..., C_{C_x}, ..., C_{S_y}, ..., C_{O_z})$ and group members' expected round-trips within $t\leq t_n$ is $m(m_1, ..., m_k) ~k \in Z^+$, where $k = x+y+z$. $U$ and $t_n$ represent the rescue mission's \textit{Group Utility} and mission time restriction, respectively. Then, we can regard rescue problem as an optimization problem Eq. \eqref{rescue_mission_problem}, which means that in the limited time, fulfilling a rescue mission maximum its \textit{Expectation Utility} based on certain requirements.
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
& \underset{C_G}\argmax~~~ \mathop{\mathbb{E}(U(t_n, m \cdot C_G))} ; \\
& subject~to~~~ \sum_{d=1}^{x} \sum_{e=1}^{y} \sum_{f=1}^{z} m \cdot C_G \geqslant TC,~d, e, f \in Z^+.
\label{rescue_mission_problem}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
To simplify our model, we just consider one specific rescue mission and $n$ identical obstacles distributed in an uncertain disaster environment randomly. The encountering obstacles times $X$ for each agent follow \textit{Poisson Distribution} Eq. \eqref{normal} and $\lambda$ represents as Eq. \eqref{lam} ($c$ and $sen$ are corresponding coefficient and area of sensing range).
\begin{eqnarray}
&& X \sim P(\lambda); \label{normal} \\
&& \lambda = \frac{cn}{sen} \label{lam}
\end{eqnarray}
And we assume that the average time and energy cost for individuals tackling each obstacle are $t_c$ and $e_c$, respectively. The distance between the central point of the initial group and rescue position is $l$. We also assume that agent energy costs mainly consist of traveling, tackling the obstacles, and fulfilling the rescue task \cite{parasuraman2012energy}. The traveling energy cost can be regarded as constant $e_t$, which is proportional to $l$.
Through Eqs. \eqref{normal} and \eqref{lam}, we can easily calculate the expectation of time encountering obstacles as Eq. \eqref{times}. Without considering obstacles, individuals coming to rescue position and returning to initial point energy cost are $\frac{2l}{v}$. Then, considering the obstacles, we estimate the expected time cost per round as Eq. \eqref{time}.
\begin{eqnarray}
&& \mathop{\mathbb{E}(X) = \sum_{i=0}^{+\infty}iP(X=i) = \lambda = \frac{cn}{sen}}; \label{times} \\
&& \mathop{\mathbb{E}(T) = \mathbb{E}(\frac{2l}{v} + 2t_cX)} = \frac{2l}{v} + \frac{2t_ccn}{sen} \label{time}
\end{eqnarray}
\subsection{Theoretical Evaluation}
In this section, we generally classify the rescue team as two different categories: \textit{Homogeneous} and \textit{Heterogeneous}.
A homogeneous robot system means the robots in that group are of the same type with same capabilities (Eq.~\eqref{cap}), whereas robots in a heterogeneous group will have different capabilities \cite{stone2000multiagent,twu2014measure}.
We assume that each agent's sensing range equal to its communication range for the sake of simplicity in analysis. Then, we use mathematical approaches to analyze and compare their performance as follows:
\paragraph{Homogeneous Cooperation}
In this scenario, we suppose that the number of \textit{Carrier}, \textit{Supplier} and \textit{Observer} are equal Eq. \eqref{num}. According to Eq. \eqref{time}, the time homogeneous group per round can be represented as Eq. \eqref{time1}.
\begin{eqnarray}
&& x = y = z = 3m,~~m \in Z^+; \label{num} \\
&& \mathop{\mathbb{E}(T_h) = \frac{2l}{v} + \frac{2t_c cn}{3m \times sen} = \lambda_h} \label{time1}
\end{eqnarray}
Considering rescue mission's tackling time equal to one unit time, the entire expectation rescue per round time is $\mathop{\mathbb{E}(T_h + 1)}$. Then, we can calculate $\mathop{\mathbb{E}(\frac{1}{T_h + 1})}$ as Eq. \eqref{time2}.
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(\frac{1}{T_h + 1})} & = \sum_{k=0}^{+\infty}\frac{1}{k+1}P(T_h = k) \\
& = \sum_{k=0}^{+\infty}\frac{1}{k+1}\frac{\lambda_h^ke^{-\lambda_h}}{k!} \\
& = \frac{1}{\lambda_h}\sum_{k=0}^{+\infty}\frac{\lambda_h^{k+1}e^{-\lambda_h}}{(k+1)!} \\
& = \frac{1}{\lambda_h}\sum_{k=0}^{+\infty}P(T_h = k + 1) \\
& = \frac{1}{\lambda_h}\sum_{k=1}^{+\infty}P(T_h = k) \\
& = \frac{1 - P(T_h = 0)}{\lambda_h} = \frac{1 - e^{-\lambda_h}}{\lambda_h}
\label{time2}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
Finally, we estimate the expected number of rounds for this homogeneous group in the rescue mission with a limited time $t_n$ as Eq. \eqref{time3}.
\begin{eqnarray}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(\frac{t_n}{T_h+1}) = \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_h})}{\lambda_h}} \label{time3}
\end{eqnarray}
We are supposing rescuing each agent cost one point supplement, energy, and space, respectively.
We can estimate the sum of \textit{Expectation Utility} -- the amount of rescued agents $U_h$ in all rounds and the total energy cost $E_h$ in group of \textit{Carrier}, \textit{Supplier} and \textit{Observer} as Eq. \eqref{res_cso} and \eqref{eng_cso} respectively.
\textit{\small{a. Carrier/Supplier/Observer expectation amount of rescued agents}}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
& \mathop{\mathbb{E}(U_{hc/s/o}) = \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{hc/s/o}})}{\lambda_{hc/s/o}}3m \times res_c/cap_s/cap_o}, \\
& \lambda_{hc/s/o} = \frac{2l}{v_{c/s/o}} + \frac{2t_ccn}{3m \times sen_{c/s/o}}
\label{res_cso}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\textit{\small{b. Carrier/Supplier/Observer expectation energy cost}}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{hc/s/o})} =
& e_t + \frac{2cn}{3m \times sen_{c/s/o}}e_c + \\
& \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{hc/s/o}})}{\lambda_{hc/s/o}}3m \times res_c/cap_s/cap_o
\label{eng_cso}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\paragraph{Heterogeneous Cooperation}
For heterogeneous cooperation, we consider four different combinations as follow:
\begin{itemize}
\item (\textit{x Carriers}, \textit{y Suppliers}), $x + y = 3m$;
\item (\textit{x Carriers}, \textit{z Observers}), $x + z = 3m$;
\item (\textit{y Suppliers}, \textit{z Observers}), $y + z = 3m$;
\item (\textit{x Carriers}, \textit{y Suppliers}, \textit{z Observers}), $x + y + z = 3m$;
\end{itemize}
Then, we estimate the expected amount of rescued agents $U_e$ and energy cost $E_e$ for each group.
\textit{a. (\textit{x Carriers}, \textit{y Suppliers})}
In this scenario, we consider \textit{Carrier} and \textit{Supplier} have the similar sensing range, and they both have enough energy (\textit{Basic Needs}) to support the entire rescue mission. So we can present $\mathbb{E}(U_{e1})$ and $\mathbb{E}(E_{e1})$ as Eq. \eqref{re1} and \eqref{ee1}.
\begin{equation}
\nonumber
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(U_{e1})} = & \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e1}})}{\lambda_{e1}} \times ((x \times cap_c + y \times cap_s) \cap \\
& (x \times res_c + y \times res_s)),
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\lambda_{e1} = \frac{2l}{v_c} + \frac{2t_ccn}{3m \times sen_c}
\label{re1}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{e1})} = & e_t + \frac{2cn}{3m \times sen_c}e_c + \\
& \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e1}})}{\lambda_{e1}} \times ((x \times cap_c + y \times cap_s) \cap \\
& (x \times res_c + y \times res_s))
\label{ee1}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\textit{b. (\textit{x Carriers}, \textit{z Observers})}
Here, we assume the entire group's velocity adapt \textit{Carriers'} speed. Similarly, we can express $\mathbb{E}(U_{e2})$ and $\mathbb{E}(E_{e2})$ as Eq. \eqref{re2} and \eqref{ee2},
\begin{equation}
\nonumber
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(U_{e2})} = & \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e2}})}{\lambda_{e2}} \times ((x \times cap_c + z \times cap_o) \cap \\
& (x \times res_c + z \times res_o)),
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\lambda_{e2} = \frac{2l}{v_c} + \frac{2t_ccn}{x \times sen_c + z \times sen_o}
\label{re2}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{e2})} = & e_t + \frac{2cn}{x \times sen_c + z \times sen_o}e_c + \\
& \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e2}})}{\lambda_{e2}} \times ((x \times cap_c + z \times cap_o) \cap \\
& (x \times res_c + z \times res_o))
\label{ee2}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\textit{c. (\textit{y Suppliers}, \textit{z Observers})}
$\mathbb{E}(U_{e3})$ and $\mathbb{E}(E_{e3})$ as Eq. \eqref{re3} and \eqref{ee3},
\begin{equation}
\nonumber
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(U_{e3})} = & \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e3}})}{\lambda_{e3}} \times ((y \times cap_s + z \times cap_o) \cap \\
& (y \times res_s + z \times res_o)),
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\lambda_{e3} = \frac{2l}{v_c} + \frac{2t_ccn}{y \times sen_s + z \times sen_o}
\label{re3}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{e3})} = & e_t + \frac{2cn}{y \times sen_s + z \times sen_o}e_c + \\
& \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e3}})}{\lambda_{e3}} \times ((y \times cap_s + z \times cap_o) \cap \\
& (y \times res_s + z \times res_o))
\label{ee3}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\textit{d. (\textit{x Carriers}, \textit{y Suppliers}, \textit{z Observers})}
$\mathbb{E}(U_{e4})$ and $\mathbb{E}(E_{e4})$ as Eq. \eqref{re4} and \eqref{ee4}.
\begin{equation}
\nonumber
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(U_{e4})} = & \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e4}})}{\lambda_{e4}} \times \\
& ((x \times cap_c + y \times cap_s + z \times cap_o) \cap \\
& (x \times res_c + y \times res_s + z \times res_o)),
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\lambda_{e4} = \frac{2l}{v_c} + \frac{2t_ccn}{x \times sen_c + y \times sen_s + z \times sen_o}
\label{re4}
\end{equation}
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(E_{e4})} = & e_t + \frac{2cn}{x \times sen_c + y \times sen_s + z \times sen_o}e_c + \\
& \frac{t_n(1 - e^{-\lambda_{e4}})}{\lambda_{e4}} \times \\
& ((x \times cap_c + y \times cap_s + z \times cap_o) \cap \\
& (x \times res_c + y \times res_s + z \times res_o))
\label{ee4}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\subsection{Comparative Analysis}
After above discussion, in this section, we first compare the performances between (\textit{Homogeneous vs Homogeneous}), (\textit{Heterogeneous vs Heterogeneous}) and (\textit{Homogeneous vs Heterogeneous}), then analyze the exiting of optimal or suboptimal solution for heterogeneous cooperation system in rescue mission. In order to simplify calculation, we assume Eq. \eqref{assume} and also regard \textit{Carrier} and \textit{Supplier} have the similar sensing range, and the sensing range of group \textit{Observer} approaches infinity.
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
res_c = cap_s = cap_o = res_o = k,~~k \in Z^+
\label{assume}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
\textit{a. \textit{Homogeneous vs Homogeneous}}
Comparing the expected amount of rescued agents between those groups can be represented as Eq. \eqref{hr_com}.
\begin{equation}
\begin{split}
\mathop{\mathbb{E}(U_{hc}) : \mathbb{E}(U_{hs}) : \mathbb{E}(U_{ho})} = 1 : 1 : \frac{\lambda_{hc}(1 - e^{-\lambda_{ho}})}{\lambda_{ho}(1 - e^{-\lambda_{hc}})}
\label{hr_com}
\end{split}
\end{equation}
Also, we can compare the group expectation energy cost of \textit{Carrier} and \textit{Supplier}, \textit{Carrier} and \textit{Observer} and \textit{Supplier} and \textit{Observer} as Eq. \eqref{he | 5,019 |
Rahim Walizada designed Afghan carpets with a modern twist and serious artistic flare, and I was completely captivated from the first moment I wondered into his effortlessly cool and sophisticated shop called Nomad in Kabul.
While Rahim had low-key charm and charisma, his cousin, who ran the shop on the Kolola Pushta Road, was surly and unfriendly.
His preferred mode of communication was to snarl. In fact I am sure I only ever once saw him unsuccessfully attempt to crack a smile in all the many<|fim_middle|> His mouth twitched momentarily and for a nanosecond I believe his lips slanted ever so slightly upwards, then the mirage evaporated.
Even the smallest of shops would indulge in the ancient tea ritual, often no matter how small the purchase. Once Jenner, one of the characters in Dispatches, and I went to Chicken Street, to buy some Afghan tops. We ended up sitting on a pile of carpets and chatting to the owner who magically produced a jar of marinated fruits and nuts in which he dug up a spoonful and shoved one in my mouth and one in Jenner's, as Afghan hospitality is legendary.
Getting a smile out of the cousin was no easier than getting a cup of tea or in fact a good deal. In a land where bargaining was another ritual, at Nomad it didn't exist. If you liked it you bought it – end of story. Despite no tea, no bargaining and no smile, I own a few carpets, despite my absolute resolve not to buy any – and no thanks to The Rugweiller. | times I ran across him, despite being a loyal customer who bought a Tora Bora cave full of carpets.
Finally, after years of patronage, I was emboldened to ask for a small cup of tea, which I believed he offered everyone else (just 'cause I'm paranoid, to paraphrase Woody Allen, doesn't mean ….). | 71 |
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Today everybody it seems is using a form of social networking. How do we use these online spaces and who uses what? Why do we use a particular network? Whichever one we choose, it enables us to connect with people. It may just be family and friends or we<|fim_middle|> share ideas. I'm becoming more comfortable with blogging and learning to stretch out to a larger open network. I think it's worth mentioning my uncertainty with Facebook. Having various group pages is useful but I find that it's too entangled with games, endless advertisements, needlessly complex privacy settings and now having to download a separate app just for messaging on Facebook (an app that my phone informs me is the main culprit of battery usage!) There are a lot of social networks to choose from. For personal use I think it would be better to choose no more than 3 or 4 social websites. My main reason for this is that I find it's easy to get overwhelmed by the number of updates and messages received. This detracts from the social networking experience. For me, I'll continue exploring blogging and embracing a wider network. Which is your network of choice? | may use it to network professionally. I primarily use Google Hangouts to keep in contact with family and close friends. I find it has a user friendly interface, simple to chat and share photos while seemingly always in full control of privacy. I enjoy being part of a closed group who I feel free to share my thoughts with. My other use of social networking is for research purposes. Type in a subject of interest in a search engine, and often you find a link to a blog post with the information required. I take this information and use it. On reflection though, this is quite selfish. I'm forever reading blogs and taking in knowledge but I never give anything back. I'm not entirely sure what I can offer, but I think using a blog can help me interact with a larger open network. I've only just created a Tumblr account but already I feel as though I'm part of a larger group of people with similar interests wherever in the world they may be. For me at least, this is fresh and opens up new possibilities. Maybe it could play an important role one day in my profession. As a designer, If I have an idea that is a little rough around the edges, why not put it out to my larger community and | 250 |
There are three basic necessities for yerba mate: the mate (gourd cup), the yer<|fim_middle|> local South American market and experiment to see which brands you like.
To brew yerba mate, put the bombilla into the mate and fill with yerba to the top. Put your hand over the top of the gourd, turn it upside down, and shake it to get rid of the tiny dusty bits that clog the bombilla. Fill to the top with green tea–temperature water (180 to 190 degrees Fahrenheit), not boiling water. Some people drink yerba mate amargo (bitter), and some add just a tiny bit of sugar to cut the bitterness. When you've finished your cup, add more hot water—you can brew the same cup of yerba mate seven or eight times.
Yerba mate is enjoyed by people throughout South America, and it's a very social activity, says laguera. Take a sip from the bombilla and pass it on to your companions; it's much more social and pleasant to share it with your friends, unless you're germaphobic. This practice also serves to share the caffeine: No one wants to be the sole beneficiary of eight brews' worth of yerba mate.
Board Links: yerba mate newbie, any suggestions/advice? | ba (green stuff), and the bombilla (a sort of filtered straw to sip from). There are many brands of yerba mate; some, like Rosamonte, are quite strong and bitter. Others, like Cruz de Malta, are a little softer. Hit up your | 56 |
Managing a business is a challenging and arduous work. And it becomes much more complex when deciding to expand internationally. Aside from time difference, various factors needed<|fim_middle|> varies from country to country. So aside from ensuring the smooth flow of your marketing campaign, you need to ensure that legal compliance has been met. So, if the language in your target country is different, consider hiring a certified legal translator for proper understanding.
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Anyway I'll be subscribing to your feeds or even I success you get admission to consistently rapidly. | to be considered as well. So, if you are intending to globalize your company's products or services, you have come to the right place. Read this article to have some ideas and note the points to consider when expanding a business internationally, regarding culture awareness.
This is a primary subject that needs to be addressed. You need to know and understand the language and culture of your target country. Do not assume that everyone will be able to understand or speak in English. As sometimes, even if English is spoken, there are certain words which are interchangeably used and could mean differently. Aside from verifying the native language, you also need to understand their practices and culture. This will help your business achieve better response from the target customers.
Local business that have already proven years of service or products in a certain country might be hard to compete with. So before deciding whether to expand internationally, it is better to research the local market competition. This will help you verify if expanding will create better sales for your company.
Huge corporations that have international presence use partnerships and affiliated programs to attain international branding. This is a good strategy as these partners are on the same time zone of your target country. Not only do they have more experience in local markets and trends, they also understand the culture awareness in their native country, thus, creating a more efficient marketing campaign. Aside from this, local partners can speak the native language and eliminates the language barrier with your target customers.
Laws governing business tax | 297 |
For more than a decade, The Better Way Back Community has supported patients undergoing the NuVasive® XLIF® surgical spine procedure. "We know the time is right to expand the program to address a greater number of conditions and treatments." said President of The Better Way Back, Michael Hubbard.
Learning Library: What is the XLIF® procedure, and is it right for me?
When you are considering back surgery as a solution to your chronic back<|fim_middle|> different non-surgical and surgical options, it is not meant to replace any personal conversations that you should have with your physician or other members of your healthcare team.
Learning Library: What is the MAS® TLIF procedure, and is it right for me?
The Maximum Access Surgery transforaminal lumbar interbody fusion (MAS TLIF) procedure is a technique that attempts to eliminate instability in your back through a less invasive approach to fuse one or more vertebrae together to reduce their motion.
May is Arthritis Awareness Month so we want to highlight one of the main causes of back pain, osteoarthritis of the spine (also known as spinal osteoarthritis or spinal arthritis).
As part of Osteoporosis Awareness/Prevention Month, we want to talk about this extremely prevalent disease that often causes back pain. Get the facts about prevention and detection before it is too late.
Chronic back pain impacts the entire family. Here's a look at what one caregiver has to say to his/her loved one before surgery.
Your doctor can explain the procedure in detail, but hearing from someone who has gone through it can be invaluable. That is why The Better Way Back® offers patient pairings. Pairing pre-op patients with Patient Ambassadors who have already had surgery is one of the most important and powerful things we offer.
Has your back pain become too much to bear?
When faced with chronic back pain, your mind may automatically jump to traditional back surgery as the solution, but there are other alternatives that could provide relief prior to considering surgery. | pain, we know there are many options to consider. Through The Better Way Back® program, we want to help by providing information, education, and support. Please know that while this website provides information about many | 42 |
Thus, these contrapuntal techniques also belong to the theory and practice of musical rhetoric in general and Figurenlehre in particular.
Werckmeister's ingenious yet simple teachings on fugue, canon and invertible counterpoint merit special mention in their own right, but they also shed light on the improvisational techniques of his contemporaries, most notably Dieterich Buxtehude, organist of the Marienkirche in Lübeck.
In many<|fim_middle|> for composers of fugue these procedures also provided indispensable tools. | of his works in improvisatory genres, including his praeambula and chorale-based compositions, Buxtehude employs the very techniques described by his friend Werckmeister.
At issue is not any question of influence: notwithstanding Werckmeister's avowals of originality, it seems more likely it was he, an innovative theorist but mediocre composer, who learned from the Lübeck master than vice versa.
Indeed, by the time Werckmeister published Harmonologia musica in 1702, the sexagenarian Buxtehude had already composed most of his organ works.
Rather, the striking parallels between Werckmeister's teachings and Buxtehude's music merit attention because they constitute mutually supporting evidence about contrapuntal improvisation in the Baroque era.1.3 If to Baroque minds invertible counterpoint and canon exemplified some of the most arcane expressions of musical science, then | 194 |
Are you just looking for some beauty in your day? Danny and Mina's sweet and classic pink rose wedding is here to deliver just that! This adorable couple kept their day intimate, even among 120 guests, with family and friends pitching in as performers, bakers and florists. And we cannot get enough of the mini cakes adorning each reception table!
You can thank the talented Jane Z Photography for blessing us with these lovely images. There is so much for you to love in this blush, lavender and white day, so be sure to soak it all up in the full gallery here.
From the Bride: We chose our venue, Eagle Mountain Golf Club, for the views. Our ceremony overlooked the East Valley, and two mesquite trees framed the spot where we said our "I dos". Gina Klein, the event coordinator at Eagle Mountain, was<|fim_middle|> breakdown to give you a rough estimate on how much a wedding like this may cost you. | amazing and made sure all the little details came together perfectly. She even brought us hors d'oeuvres to munch on and and our signature cocktails to sip on while we took photos during cocktail hour.
In the almost-two years Danny and I were engaged, we went to a lot of fabulous weddings. After each wedding, we reflected on what we enjoyed most and came up with a list of priorities. Danny wanted us to write our own vows and have our friends and family dancing all night. I wanted beautiful flowers and cakes on every table.
My advice to brides-to-be is to keep perspective on what the wedding is about - marrying your best friend! Sometimes, this was challenging for me because I am such a detail-oriented person... Luckily, Danny and my maid of honor, Taylor, were amazing at reminding me of what really mattered.
We both wanted a March wedding (we think March is the nicest time of year in Arizona) and an open bar with fun his-and-hers signature cocktails. Danny's signature cocktail was an Irish Mule (Jameson, ginger beer and lime) and my signature cocktail was a French 75 (gin, champagne, lemon juice, and simple syrup, with a sprig of lavender).
Read on to see how much this sweet and classic pink rose wedding cost. Please note that costs change as the years go by, and prices are subject to change. This is just one couple's | 287 |
Councillor Priority Fund boosts community projects across Oxfordshire
Community Fridge
OurBus Bartons Ken Caldwell
OurBus Bartons Ian Hudspeth
Lower Heyford Sports & Social Club 1
Lower Heyford Sports & Social Club
Projects making a big difference across local communities have received a cash boost from Oxfordshire county councillors.
Everything from community centres and community buses to community fridges have been supported as part of the Councillor Priority Fund.
In February last year, the county council agreed to set aside £945,000 in 2018/19 and 2019/20 for the fund, with charities, groups and organisations invited to apply for support.
It's all part of the council's commitment to thriving communities, with councillors best placed to identify local projects that would enable residents to play an active part in their community.
Councillors have £15,000 to spend in the first year, which could be rolled over into the second year when they were given the same amount again.
So far, £513,000 of the £945,000 has been spent, with some councillors indicating they would roll their 2018/19 funding into 2019/20.
Cllr Mark Gray, Cabinet Member for Local Communities, said: "I'm really delighted with this priority fund because it gives councillors the opportunity to support things that really make a difference in their own division."
Other schemes supported by the Councillor Priority Fund include traffic safety measures, war memorial projects, first-aid training, playground equipment and the installation of defibrillators.
Abingdon: Helping young people to deal with social media pressures
Workshops taking place in three Abingdon secondary schools are empowering students to go online safely and understand risks related to privacy and cyberbullying.
The SMART Project (Social Media Anxiety Resilience Team) is run by The Abingdon Bridge charity and enables young people to recognise and resist pressures from social media.
SMART was launched in January last year with the help of a £7,000 grant from Oxfordshire County Council's Communities Fund.
Cllrs Alison Rooke, Emily Smith, Neil Fawcett and Bob Johnston, whose divisions are all in the Abingdon area, also made donations from their priority fund and have repeated their support with grants of £2,000 each for the year ahead.
The Abingdon Bridge (TAB) offers counselling and one-to-one support to young people aged 13 to 25 who find themselves in challenging circumstances.
SMART reached out to more than 500 students at Larkmead, John Mason and Fitzharrys schools last year. It has also been promoted through partnerships with housing associations, police, community and other youth groups.
Gary Hibbins, service manager for TAB, said research had shown 70 per cent of young people felt the internet and social media had had a negative impact on their mental health.
"One in three have been targeted, threatened or humiliated online. There is an increasing amount of anxiety and young people are constantly comparing themselves to others," he said.
"Many young people have also reported that social media has made them 'less social'. They have become less engaged with adults."
Through the workshops, students have been issued personal challenges, like having 48 hours away from social media and taking part in things like 'Make Wednesday a No Phone Zone'.
Larkmead student Seb Pita, 16, said work in the SMART workshop had taught him to keep calm about things he read online. He admitted he was a heavy Snapchat and Instagram user but had made efforts to cut his use of social media and had tried to focus more on things like the gym.
Fellow pupil Leon Godwin, 15, said he had also managed to reduce time spent on the phone. "As soon as I stopped going on social media I wasn't getting so tired," he<|fim_middle|> This priority funding has helped them buy an additional bus so in case one breaks down they've got back-up."
Benson: Little Acorns sprouting extra sessions
A children's centre has expanded to meet a growing demand for sessions in Benson.
With 1,000 new homes rising rapidly in the village, Benson Little Acorns Baby & Toddler Group has increased from one session a week to four.
The centre, which meets at the youth hall in Oxford Road, attracts up to 20 mums and toddlers per day.
Cllr Mark Gray, whose division includes Benson, has given £1,500 from his Councillor Priority Fund to help towards new equipment and training of volunteers.
Group support worker Helen Spicer, whose three-year-old son Lucas joins her at the sessions, said: "I think the group's important for everyone in the family. It provides support for mums and dads. It's somewhere for new mums to share their experiences, ask questions and let off some steam.
"We're really grateful for this extra funding. It's a big help as we expanded to four sessions in January."
Little Acorns hosts 'stay and play' sessions on Mondays and Fridays from 9.30-11.30am, and 'tuck in' Tuesdays from 12.15-2.15pm, both for nought to five-year-olds. A group for babies up to the age of one meets on Thursdays from 1.45-3pm.
The children's centre opened in January 2017 and will receive £22,000 over two years from the county council's Transition Fund – start-up funding for groups providing local children's services in Oxfordshire.
Cllr Gray said he was pleased to contribute from his Councillor Priority Fund and was delighted to see the group flourishing.
"Little Acorns can be a lifeline for parents. It doesn't matter how old you are, if you've got young children you might be finding things difficult," he said.
"This is an opportunity for parents to share experiences and receive support should they need it." | said.
And Charlie Neal, 14, added: "The workshops have helped me to become more sensible online and now I'm a lot more careful with my comments."
Cllr Alison Rooke said she had known about the great work that TAB does for many years.
"This particular project on social media is clearly something that is really needed. It's something that is going to have a knock-on effect for the rest of their lives and the lives of those who are in contact with them," she said.
Cllr Emily Smith said: "I'm really pleased that TAB is going into schools to offer these workshops and in some cases that is leading to further support from the charity.
"Reaching young people as early as possible, and helping them develop strategies for coping with whatever life throws at them, is vital for their mental wellbeing and engagement in education.
"TAB has really stepped up and tried to the bridge the gap with young people experiencing mental health issues. That's why I was so keen to support them."
Wallingford: Community fridge overflowing with produce
Wallingford Community Fridge has been overflowing with produce since its launch in December last year.
Located at The Fountain Charity Bookshop in St Mary's Street, the fridge is stacked full of fresh fruit, vegetables and bread donated by local shops and supermarkets.
People in need are then free to browse through its contents and take whatever they wish to supplement their meals for free. It already attracts up to 20 visitors a day.
The purchase of the fridge was made possible thanks to a £500 grant from Cllr Lynda Atkins from the Councillor Priority Fund.
The project was set up by Tracey Lloyd-Jones, assistant manager at The Fountain.
She explained: "My husband and I saw a TV programme. They did a five-minute snippet showing a community fridge in Southend and thought we could do this in Wallingford from the bookshop.
"It has gone better than I thought. Last week I couldn't keep the fridge full. The shops and supermarkets have been very supportive and let me know when I can go out and collect donations."
Tracey is supported by Rachel Eccles, from the Ridgeway Community Church, and other volunteers. Food donations have come from the town's Lidl and Waitrose stores, plus Marks and Spencer in Didcot.
"We've got a local shop that's just opened called The Cookhouse Deli and the chap from there gave us some bread the other day.
"It's reaching out to all of our community and the bonus is that it's helping people who are most in need."
Cllr Atkins was delighted to see the community fridge working so well.
She said: "It has a number of advantages. It reduces food waste by cutting what's going to landfill and also provides a source of fresh food to people who may be in more need.
"The team here were willing to host it so the fact that I was able to provide the funding through the Councillor Priority Fund to set it up was fantastic.
"It supplements the work being done by the town's Emergency Food Bank and really is a win-win."
The Wallingford Community Fridge is open Tuesday to Friday, 9.30am-4.30pm, and Saturdays from 9.30m-1pm.
Lower Heyford: Striking new centre at the heart of the community
Ramshackle dressing rooms have been replaced by a modern, timber-clad sports and community centre at Lower Heyford.
The £200,000 project was spearheaded by the local community and included £99,500 from the Lower Heyford Village Hall Fund plus a £50,000 grant from the Football Foundation.
There was also major investment from the Lower Heyford Sports & Social Club, Lower Heyford Relief In Need Charity, parish council and Heyford Athletic Football Club.
Cllr Ian Corkin pledged £2,000 from the Councillor Priority Fund which will be put towards a patio area and rubber decking for parking.
Work on the King George's Sports & Community Centre started in June last year and is well on course for its grand opening on May 5.
The new dressing rooms are a big boost for Heyford Athletic, who are going well in their bid to hold on to the Oxfordshire Senior League premier division crown they won last season.
Cllr Corkin said: "It's a terrific facility right at the heart of the community. It will be used for so much more than just playing football.
"It has really opened things up and you can imagine people now wanting to hold things like wedding receptions and engagement parties here.
"The community has really led from the front on this. My grant has just been to help with some of the finishing touches outside. I know there's a grand opening coming in May and I look forward to attending that."
Local firm JD Varney Builder and Carpenter has led on the project from start to finish.
Cheryl Pike, treasurer and social secretary on the centre's management committee, was delighted to see the project nearing completion.
She said: "We were short of the money to finish off bits and pieces outside the building so we greatly appreciate Cllr Corkin's grant and all the other pledges of funding."
The Bartons: New vehicle for community bus service
The wheels keep turning on a volunteer-run community bus service which is about to welcome a new vehicle to the fleet.
OurBus Bartons launched a fundraising campaign in April last year which has enabled it to buy a replacement bus.
The 16-seater Treka minibus cost £45,000 second-hand and will go into service once signwriting is complete.
County council leader Ian Hudspeth, whose division includes the Bartons, contributed £5,000 towards the fundraising campaign from his Councillor Priority Fund, repeating a donation he made last year.
OurBus Bartons chairman Ken Caldwell said: "Both this year and last year we were very lucky to receive funding from Cllr Hudspeth's Priority Fund.
"Last year we used it for ongoing maintenance to keep the buses running and for some staff clothing. This year we put the funding towards the replacement bus."
OurBus Bartons was launched in June 2016 to provide an immediate response to cuts to rural transport and has since delivered more than 14,000 passenger journeys.
Operating from Middle Barton, it serves destinations including Deddington, Steeple Aston, Oxford Parkway, Chipping Norton, Bicester, Begbroke, Yarnton and Kidlington.
It is run by a group of trustees and directors and boasts a dedicated band of around 10 volunteer drivers.
Journeys are made to health centres in Deddington and Chipping Norton, as well as nearby supermarkets.
Mr Caldwell said: "It's a lifeline to many in the community. We've just taken on a new service to the Windmill Day Centre in Deddington which means four elderly members from Middle Barton can get out and about.
"It's providing them with activities, companionship and a meal, which would otherwise not be possible as none of them have their own transport."
Cllr Hudspeth said he was delighted to see OurBus Bartons going from strength to strength.
He said: "I represent the Woodstock division which covers a large rural area. One of the key problems in Middle Barton was the lack of a local bus service so the community got together to put on this service.
"It's providing a useful connection to local services for local people. | 1,549 |
Pepi's Place opens on Brady with late-night slices and early breakfasts
Carol Deptolla
Pepi's Place, which opened a week ago at 1330 E. Brady St., is just a few hours shy of being a 24-hour restaurant on the weekends.
It keeps late-night hours to cater to Brady St. bar crowds, until 3 a.m. Thursday through Saturday and until midnight the rest of the week, serving slices of pizza and as well as the entire menu of whole pies, pasta, wings, fried chicken, fried cod and sandwiches.
It starts at 7 every morning with a diner-style breakfast, such as two eggs, meat, hash browns and toast ($8.95), Canadian bacon hash with eggs ($9.95) and a breakfast sandwich on house bread ($5.95). Breakfast is served until 2 p.m.
The restaurant also serves what it calls an Italian brunch, including mini frittatas ($6.95), a brunch lasagna ($10.95), made with scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon and Alfredo sauce, and Italian pancakes<|fim_middle|> Mane said, customers with memories of the original location have visited the restaurant and dined in at Pepi's again.
"We're coming around full circle," she said.
Journal Sentinel photo | ($6.95), thin, crepe-like pancakes that are rolled and garnished with powdered sugar and fruit.
Pepi's Pizza had been a takeout-only restaurant at 3929 S. Howell Ave. Amber Mane, co-owner with her father, Ricci Mane, said they wanted the restaurants to return to its dine-in roots. Pepi's was at S. 16th and W. Scott streets from 1953 until 1995, she said.
They wanted a location with foot traffic; unable to find the right place on the south side, they found the building on Brady, which previously had been the Philly Way sandwich shop and Berry Me frozen yogurt shop.
The storefronts were combined to place a dining room on one side, with seating for 40 that will more than double within a few months, and a takeout counter on the other, with a few seats for diners who want to eat their slice on the spot.
Pepi's makes a thin-crust pizza, distinctive for its cornmeal-dusting on the bottom, in three sizes (10-, 14- and 16-inch, starting at $8.75 to $14.75).
Other menu items include lasagna ($10.95) and spachetti and meatbals ($8.95), fried cod ($9.50), fried chicken ($9.50), baby back ribs ($15.95 and $19.90), wings with a choice of five sauces (from six pieces at $5.95 to 40 pieces at $30.95) and sandwiches such as chicken Parmesan ($8.95).
Amber Mane said the restaurant would add a Friday fish fry with lake perch in a couple of weeks, in addition to the daily fried cod offering.
Starting at 3 p.m., it serves several standard pizzas by the slice (cheese, sausage and pepperoni); at 6 p.m., the offerings expand to a half-dozen ($3 a slice, $3.50 for specialty slices such as Buffalo chicken).
The restaurant has delivery, to about Bayshore Town Center to the north, 76th St. to the west and Oklahoma Ave. to the south. It's working to expand the delivery area south to the airport. "We want to deliver to our loyal customers" on the south side, Mane said.
Pepi's Place serves beer and wine, and it plans to have sidewalk seating in summer.
Already, | 531 |
Reducing uncertainty in a hospital laboratory: Webs of reasons involved in making a statistical inference.
Students' reasoning about uncertainty while making informal statistical inferences in an Integrated Pedagogic Approach.
Reasoning about uncertainty is a key and challenging element in informal statistical inferential reasoning. We designed and implemented an "Integrated Pedagogic Approach" to help students understand the relationship between sample and population in making informal statistical inferences. In this case study we analyze two sixth grade students' reasoning about uncertainty during their first encounters with making informal statistical inferences based on random samples taken from a hidden TinkerPlots2 Sampler. We identified four main stages in the students' reasoning about uncertainty: Account for, examine, control, and quantify uncertainty. In addition, two types of uncertainties – contextual and a statistical –shaped the students' reasoning about uncertainty and played a major role in their transitions from stage to stage. Implications for research and practice are also discussed.
Long term impact of the connections program on students' informal inferential reasoning.
Long-term effects of learning are a desirable outcome of any educational program and are far from being an obvious result in education. Furthermore, statistical concepts tend to be ambiguous and "short lasting" in students' reasoning, even among tertiary students. In this longitudinal study, long-term impact of teaching and learning was sought among ninth graders, three years after their participation in a three-year intervention (<|fim_middle|> of productive subjective failure before intentionally deciding to explicate and negotiate their own group norms. This transition saw a marked increase in collaboration among group members. Using a micro-genetic interpretive approach, we analyzed the stages of group development that led to this outcome. Our findings indicate that the process of explicating and negotiating norms (PENN) was the climactic event whereby the group transformed their responsibility and collaborative learning behavior. We discuss the implications of our findings, which we believe inform both theory and design of productive failure in CSCL.
Teaching and learning of statistics (Topic Study Group 12 report) | grades 4-6) of the Connections Program. In a mixed methods study, students from two groups – those who have / have not taken part in the program – were closely followed and compared throughout three extended data inquiry activities and took a statistical knowledge and thinking proficiency test. Results and implications are presented.
Students' emergent roles in developing their reasoning about uncertainty and modeling.
Roles that students take in solving problems can help in guiding and scaffolding their learning and meaning making. We present a case study – part of a UK-Israel research project – that focuses on the emerging roles spontaneously developed by Israeli eighth-grade students (14 years old) in solving a scientific-statistical inquiry task using TinkerPlots2. The task integrated four design approaches: Exploratory Data Analysis, Active Graphing, modeling, and gaming. We examine how this task design played a role in this emergence of students' roles and how they respectively adopted perspectives on uncertainty and modeling. Implications of the findings are discussed.
Children's emergent articulations of uncertainty while making informal statistical inferences.
Children's expressions of uncertainty in statistical modelling.
We present initial data from a collaboration between researchers in the UK and in Israel. We aimed to explore how young students (11-14 years of age) expressed uncertainty in partiallydetermined situations, where a signal might account for some, or even a substantial amount of, variation but additionally there is a need to account for noise in the system. The two teams collaborated to develop a task that drew on previous experience with Active Graphing and EDA. As well as collecting data through an experiment, the young students used the modelling functionality in TinkerPlots2 to create models (or 'machines') that generated similar data to that in the experiment. In the presentation, we describe the various ways in which the young students accounted for and expressed uncertainty verbally and through actions in TinkerPlots2.
Reducing uncertainty in a hospital laboratory: A vocational student's web of reasons and actions involved in making a statistical inference.
Students' emergent reasoning about uncertainty exploring sampling distributions in an "integrated approach".
We analyze students' articulations of uncertainty during their first steps in exploring sampling distributions in a TinkerPlots2 inquiry-based learning environment. A new pedagogical "integrated approach" was implemented to help students understand the relationship between sample and population. We focus in this case study on two students (age 13, grade 7) who had previously participated in the Connections Project EDA activities. We describe the students' articulations of uncertainty when they explore a sampling distribution of proportions, negotiate the interval of proportions they agree to accept as "correct results," and express their confidence level in getting this interval.
Productive subjective failure in a learning community: Process of explicating and negotiating norms.
This paper presents a case study of an exemplary blended graduate classroom learning community that showed students taking responsibility over their own collaborative learning. Specifically, the group went through a stage | 602 |
Pound for pound bass are<|fim_middle|>4 pound size with the occasional 5 pounder. | probably the best fighters in the Lake of the Woods. Up until mid June bass are found on or near their spawning grounds. Look for sandy bottoms near rock structure and fairly shallow water.
At any time of the year, watch the shoreline for small rocks – about egg size. These rocky bottoms provide the crawfish and hatching insects on which the smallmouths feed on. Although they are often caught while fishing walleyes, casting is usually the best technique. Jigs, small plugs, spoons, and spinners are the most productive. Live bait fished on the bottom is also good. Bass like leeches, night crawlers, and minnows.
Smallmouths are deceptive fighters and if you don't keep a tight line when they go into their aerial acrobatics and you will only have the memory left.
We also have excellent largemouth bass fishing in the Whitefish Bay area. Our guests commonly catch them in the 2- | 194 |
Home » Four Companies Join ASC
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Four Companies Join ASC
The Adhesive and Sealant Council Inc. (ASC) recently announced four new members to its organization in the second three months of 2012, pushing its membership level to 118 member companies. The new member companies represent different aspects of the adhesive and sealant supply chain, including raw materials suppliers, manufacturers, and global affiliates. The companies that joined the council are: Prosoco, Lawrence, KS;<|fim_middle|> and staff have been actively involved in communicating the new value propositions being delivered by the council to previous members and candidates, and are pleased to have several leading companies join the council," said Matthew E. Croson, president.
For additional information, visit www.ascouncil.org.
Four Companies Join SOCMA
Five Companies Join ASC
Seven Companies Join ASC | WF Taylor, Fontana, CA; Henkel, Rocky Hill, CT; and Risun Polymer, Taizhou, China.
"ASC's leadership | 31 |
Did you know…? march 2021 edition
March 12, 2021 blendnetwork11 Alternative Finance, Peer To Peer, Peer To Peer Lending Leave a comment
In today's 'online' world where we all shop online, work online and even invest online with platforms such as Blend Network, we've decided on a monthly 'Did you know' mini-series where we invite you to know more about us, our story and the people behind Blend Network, the company that you and hundreds of other investors like you trust to invest money with.
In this month's 'Did you know' we share with you the amusing story behind Blend Network. Back in 2015, a French restaurateur made the headiness<|fim_middle|> CEO Yann Murciano, who of course is French and an ex-banker, felt not only deeply insulted but also realised that something was profoundly wrong with banking when a successful entrepreneur was unable to get funding to expand his business. So, this is how Blend Network was conceived to focus on helping investors access yield by investing in property-secured loans and help fund property projects: a marketplace for debt where we connect lenders who want to invest and borrowers who need funding for their projects.
Blend Network launched in mid-2017 and since then we have delivered an average 10.14% return p.a. as of today, 12 March 2021, and 0 loss to hundreds of investors attracted by yield and property-secured loans. So, keep an eye on more loans being listed on www.blendnetwork.com.
Start lending
Blend Loan Network Limited is an Appointed Representative of Resolution Compliance Limited which is authorised and regulated by the Financial Conduct Authority (FRN. 574048)
Previous Post: Why invest your pension with P2P lending
Next Post: Property Market Monitor: March 2021 | after forbidding bankers from entering his Paris restaurant when he was refused a loan to expand his successful business. With his gourmet Paris eatery listed in the Michelin Guide and business soaring, the 30-year old successful entrepreneur and owner of Les Ecuries de Richelieu had applied to several banks for a loan; only one bank replied rejecting the loan request without giving any reason. "In 2015, we had our best year, not only in terms of profitability, but also in terms of turnover" said Mr Callet, who subsequently decided to put a sign at the entrance of his restaurant that declared bankers were forbidden entry unless they paid an entrance fee of 70,000 euros, i.e. the amount of the loan he did not get. After seeing the sign outside Mr Callet's restaurant, Blend Network founder and | 174 |
Home Transportation Electric Vehicles
Eliica – Eight Wheeled Electric Car Trying To Beat The Speed Record
Mike Sandru
A team of Japanese technicians from Keio University have built two electric cars trying to beat the speed record on such vehicles. Each of the cars with a bizarre design, has eight wheels and is powered by Lithium-Ion batteries. Each of the eight wheels is driven by a 80 hp electric motor.
The electric vehicle's top speed is around 400 km/h with an acceleration from 0 to 100 km / h in 4 seconds. The car is called Eliica (abbreviation of Lithium Ion Car), and it has<|fim_middle|>. One version is considered an "acceleration" model and the second a "speed" model.
Dr. Hiroshi Shimizu
Eight Wheels Electric Car
Eliica
Eliica electric car
Lithiu-Ion batteries
Lithium Ion Car
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The car costs 320,000 dollars and if the team will recive a corporate sponsorship from the government, the Japanese car makers plan to produce 200 units for an estimated price of $255,000. We're talking about $159 per wheel or $1,275 per vehicle. The Eliica idea has been kicking around 2003, but now Dr. Hiroshi Shimizu (the man behind the idea) and his students built a pair of Eliicas | 124 |
<|fim_middle|> would have loved that story!
I loved that your dad brought you and your sister into the sports & hiking picture and didn't just do it with your brothers! Your dad was ahead of the times! He sounds like such an incredible man! You are such a blessed daughter!
You are so right Mimi! Plus my dad loved to play. It was hard enough to wait for my brothers to get old enough for the hunting trips, if he'd felt he had to wait so long just to throw a forward pass, I don't think he could have stood it, LOL. Seriously, my dad made us feel we could do most anything, so did my mom, in a culture that was still quite confused!
Fun story, of sharing an active life with your dad. Obviously, he has cherished his time with each of you.
My dad was the best. Glad to hear you'll be reading his book. You'll love it Mark. Please let me know what you think of it for young/teen hunters. It was a ritual, taking the young men under their wing and showing them how to hunt after they'd had their gun safety training! | Every Saturday, many Sundays after Church, every Christmas Eve and Father's day were my dad's and nobody questioned it! My dad had many qualities that made him a great dad, he loved his children, he loved to be outside and play with us and was the best story-teller. I could listen to my dad's stories by the hour. I still can!
He loved us so much, my mother told me later, that the night they realized that a separation was going to happen he cried about not living with us kids. It breaks my heart to think of it. My poor parents, both loved us so much. My dad in tears, I could hardly bear it when she told me.
But on to the fun stuff. We lived in Minnesota. My dad was from Mitchell, South Dakota. Two cold places. He never let that stop him from being outside, or from taking us on hikes as he called walking up and down whatever hill or mini-mountain we could find.
On a Dad Hike! Me Bill and Scott!
He played football for the University and taught all for of us to go out for passes. Suzy first, she was the fastest, then me, then Bill and then Scott. He had us running, catching the football, throwing a nice spiral back to him so he could fire one off to the next kid in line. It was a blast. We went as fast as we could. Suzy set a pretty fast pace. She's the beautiful blond girl in the pigtails in the picture. The baby is my sister Sara. She'd watch at first. Eventually she joined us for basketball. I don't remember her playing football.
Sara was a delight as was her mom. Pop is my dad's dad, also known to tell a good story. My dad loved words and chose his well. I loved to hear my dad talk about anything, but most especially his childhood. His childhood friends had amazing names, like "Liver Lips" Johnson! My dad could really made us laugh as you might well imagine! He told the stories of how he and his brother fought that are the stuff of family legend. He has golf stories that would make you laugh 'til you cried. You're probably wondering why I'm not telling you any, well my dad is an author, currently working on his memoirs! I don't want to steal any of his thunder!
There was one thing I envied my brothers. Well two, I guess. 1) every year they went hunting with dad and 2) they went down to the Athletic Club every Saturday morning with dad to workout, play basketball, etc. Dad would pick us up after. It was a men's club back then with just certain hours that they allowed women's swimming, which we did! But I wasn't to envious. One big drawback, they couldn't be a daughter of dad's which is a precious thing!
All sports at my dad's house were strictly co-ed. Other places, it was another era. There weren't many sports for women back then, and my gym teachers were amazed at my basketball prowess when they began to "teach" us the game. Too bad they didn't teach football too! Dad | 655 |
While certainly not all dads struggle with "girl stuff" and relegate such things to Mom, for even the most "girl dad" of dads, doing their daughter's hair takes practice and help that YouTube videos simply don't provide.
The Salem High School cheerleading squad hopes to provide<|fim_middle|> take place in the high school cafeteria and tickets cost $25, with an additional $5 for each girl after the first. Tickets can be purchased at the high school office [make checks out to SHS Cheer] by Friday, Feb. 8. There will be games and a few lucky winners will receive door prizes of hair goodies.
For more information, contact the Salem High School office at 812-883-3904. | some help with that during their Daddy-Daughter Brunch and Brush on Saturday, Feb. 16, from 9:30 to 11 a.m.
There's no "dad" requirement or age limit for the event. Uncles and nieces, grandfathers and granddaughters, little girls to teens, all are welcome.
The Brunch and Brush will | 79 |
info@jeevaratchanai.org
About Jeevaratchanai
The Hope House Chennai
Awareness Programs
Child Safety / Sexual Abuse
Counselling Programs
Family Counselling & Pre-Marital Counselling
Modern Boys Club
Elderly Programs
Medical Programs
Arms Of Mercy
Road Enforcement Programs
Police Booth
Shelter For The Homeless
Self Development Programs
Self Help Groups
Our mission is to help, support, transform and empower the underprivileged, uneducated, poor, and needy through our robust services by identifying and addressing their needs.
To make real and lasting change in people's lives by working together and serving them through love.
Our core values are central to our collective vision that serve as enduring and guiding principles. These values are incorporated into our services, continually communicated and reinforced.
Love and Hope
We strongly integrate our principle of "do everything in love". Love activates, empowers, encourages, and encompasses all of our other core values. We invest in individuals, families, and communities to dream big, live a life driven by purpose, and help them acquire real life skills. We empower people of all ages and give them hope and a future.
Dignity and<|fim_middle|> empower the underprivileged, uneducated, poor and needy – both individuals and communities – for the betterment of their well-being.
A registered children's home under the Juvenile Justice (Care and Protection) Act, 2015.
Help a child further his/her studies
#7/16 Subbarayan Street
(Near Valluvarkottam),
Copyright ©2017 Jeevaratchanai. All Rights Reserved | Respect for Individual
Each person has a unique and intrinsic value. We commit to treating everyone with dignity and respect regardless of their socio-cultural or socio-economic background. We embrace people's individuality, anchored on love, to foster holistic development and growth.
Compassion and Humility
We devote ourselves to serve compassionately and humbly, making people feel loved, safe, and secure with us.
Care and Human Relationship
Everyone is interconnected in a web of care, making care indispensable to human life and fundamental to human relationships. We understand, recognize, and value the centrality of care and importance of relationships highly and believe that the best way to enable long term root-level change is by building healthy, meaningful, and caring relationships engrained in love.
We operate creatively as we build excellence into everything we do. As we embrace people in need, we are distinct in our quality of service. We focus profoundly on paying attention to and identifying their needs, taking responsibility to act on those needs, being competent to meet those needs, and attentively evaluating if the needs are met by determining whether the responsiveness is adequate.
Integrity and Stewardship
We strongly encourage and embrace openness and transparency. We establish and maintain systems that ensure accountability.
"Jeevaratchanai" means "Saves Lives" in Tamil, which is one of the languages native to the southern part of India.
It is a non-profit social service organization that was started with an indelible purpose: to support, transform, and | 304 |
In this week's episode, our (anti)heroes discuss the top 10 one hit wonders, animated Deadpool, and searching for Ryan Reynolds!
In this week's episode, our (anti)heroes discuss the top 10 Daredevil Team-Ups, late 90's annuals, and Donald Glover's age!
In this week's episode, our (anti)heroes discuss the top 10 Rob Liefeld stories, Happy, shiny Deadpool, and Ryan Reynolds' recent trailer work!
In this week's episode, our (anti)heroes discuss the top 10 animal characters, the Guardians of the Galaxy, and the sneak peek of Inhumans!
All New Marvel Roundup #134: Return of the Hero?
-The Capes and Lunatics Podcast is coming!
In this week's episode, our (anti)heroes discuss redheads, Deadpool's teaser trailer and dreams of a Lego Deadpool set !
-Will there be a connection between the Cloak and Dagger TV show and Peggy Carter?
-Will Vance Astro be in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2? Which actor will portray him?
-Is Ego an Elder of the Universe in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2?
-Will Apple buy Disney (and Marvel)?
Phil & Charlie chat with current Thunderbolts and upcoming Uncanny Avengers writer Jim Zub about his writing and what it's like to work at Marvel.
-JIm Zub is a great writer!
In this week's episode, our (anti)heroes discuss the top 10 dead presidents, creepy stalkers, and not so fashionable villains!
All New Marvel Roundup: Someone's Gonna Get Cut!
All New Marvel Roundup: 1-11-2017: Someone's Gonna Get Cut!
-What role will Ned Leeds play in Spider-Man: Homecoming?
Phil continues his discussion with comics legend Mark Waid about his time working on Captain America, Daredevil, and his current Avengers run!
All New Marvel Roundup: Enough Already Peter & Tony!
All New Marvel Roundup: 11-23-2016: Enough Already Peter & Tony!
-Tatyana Kot should play the role of Medusa on the upcoming Inhumans TV show!
-Will we see Agent Carter on Agents of Shield?
-Are the X-Men coming to the MCU? Is Deadpool?
Phil sits down for a one on one interview with author Devin Grayson to discuss her new novel, Doctor Strange: The Fate of Dreams and the new Doctor Strange movie.
Charlie & Phil chat with CBR's Brian Cronin about the current state of the world of comic books!
Phil sits down for a one on one interview with former Marvel Comics writer Ann Nocenti to discuss her time writing Daredevil and how she co-created the characters of Typhoid Mary and Blackheart!
-IS DC winning the comic book sales battle?
-Why can't Ben Grimm transform?
-Luke Cage is almost here!
-Will we ever get anymore Marvel/DC crossovers?
All New Marvel Roundup: Why Not Chameleon?
All New Marvel Roundup: 7-20-2016: Why Not Chameleon?
Charlie does a quick review of his favorite books of last week (Ms. Marvel, Mighty Thor, and Gwenpool).
All New Marvel Roundup: Lilith Hellfire Saves the Day!
All New Marvel Roundup: 6-22-2016: Lilith Hellfire Saves the Day!
All New Marvel Roundup: 5-11-2016: 'Pools Rule!
All New Marvel Roundup: 'Pools Rule!
All New Marvel Roundup: 4-13-2016: Moon Knight's the crazy one?
All New Marvel Roundup: Moon Knight's the crazy one?
-Will the Agents of Shield appear in Captain America: Civil War?
-What is the nature of time?
All New Marvel Roundup: 4-6-2016: All Hail the Black Panther!
All New Marvel Roundup: All Hail the Black Panther!
Superconnectivity: Batman Down, Daredevil Up?
-Will Hawkeye be safe in Captain America: Civil War?
All New Marvel Roundup 3-9-2016: Spiders, Standoffs, and Boss Deadpool!
3-9-2016: Spiders, Standoffs, and Boss Deadpool!
3-2-2016: Face it Iron Man, you hit the jackpot!
All New Marvel Roundup 3-2-2016: Face it Iron Man, you hit the jackpot!
All New Marvel Roundup 1-20-2016: Marvels Everywhere!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 1-13-16. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
All New Marvel Roundup 1-13-2016: How Reed & Victor got their groove back!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 1-6-16. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpod<|fim_middle|> and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 11-11-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 11-4-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 10-21-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil & Charlie also discuss the upcoming Hyperion, Nighthawk, and International Iron Man series.
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 9-30-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 9-23-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 9-16-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks! | cast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 12-30-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 12-23-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 12-16-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 12-9-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 12-2-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 11-25-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil and Charlie run down the Marvel comics for the week of 11-18-15. Learn more, subscribe, or contact us at www.southgatemediagroup.com. Follow us on Twitter @nuffsaidpodcast and on Instagram as nuffsaidpodcast. We also have a Tumblr blog at southgatemediagroup.tumblr.com. You can write to us at southgatemediagroup@gmail.com and let us know what you think. Be sure to rate us and review the episode. It really helps other people find us. Thanks!
Phil | 923 |
Q&A with Midnight Oil frontman Peter Garrett
Forty years after graduating from ANU, Peter Garrett returned to discuss his new book.
From full stadiums to Parliament House, ANU alumnus Peter Garrett AM has always lived life with power and passion.
As frontman of Midnight Oil, he took Australian music to new heights and used this fame to progress political hot potatoes, including rights for Indigenous peoples and conservation issues.
From this, a political career ensued and led to him becoming a Minister in the Rudd and Gillard Governments.
After leaving politics, Garrett has taken the time to write about his life in Big Blue Sky: A Memoir. He returned to ANU to launch his book.
What's more important, the music or the message?
Music, for a band at least, must come first, then you start to pick things up.
I did my arts and politics degree here at ANU and then finished up at University of NSW and, through those years, I started to interact with people.
It's a process of osmosis in some ways, you're not starting off trying to write a manifesto and you're not seeming like you have all the answers.
Because we weren't interested in the idea of getting into the charts or going on TV, like other bands were, it was different for us.
We were more besotted with the idea of how five quite different individuals can wrestle our sound together and then add some words in so it worked for us.
We then wanted to maybe take it out and do something further with it.
You had many of your formative musical years in Canberra and at ANU, do you miss it?
Much of my musical life is bound up in this town and subsequently when we began to play here.
As some of you will know, even at the time when we were achieving a great deal of popularity, we still wanted to come and play at the places like the ANU Bar where we were a bit closer to people because the energy of the audience and what was happening on stage were so palpable.
It lifted us as a band.
Can you explain how you became the frontman of Midnight Oil after answering an ad in The Sydney Morning Herald?
Yeah, that says something about me. What self-respecting rebel without a cause is reading at 9am?
I then turned up at 11am on the dot to do the audition and I only really succeeded because there were no other applicants.
As I write in the book, the Oils said 'you've got it' and we went on a tour of the NSW South Coast, down as far as Batemans Bay. The band then went back to Sydney and I came back to Canberra to keep studying.
They went on and tried to look for another singer. It wasn't until a year later until I moved up to Sydney full time when things clicked.
Midnight Oil. Photo: Oliver Eclipse
You write in your book about your early musical experiences in Canberra, what were your favourite?
It's easy for us to look through the past in rose coloured glasses but, gee, there was a lot of music around here at the end of the '60s and start of<|fim_middle|> musician] Muddy Waters played in a circus tent at Lyneham. It was an unbelievable show. To this day, all our popular music is still rooted in the blues.
It does really help if you can get that close to somebody who's truly so immersed in what they were doing. I was mesmerised.
How much of an influence on Midnight Oil was Slim Dusty?
We thought we marched to the beat of the same drum, in part because we discovered Slim was the first person to play in towns where we thought we were the first.
He was an influence because he wasn't pandering to the American sound. You still hear it, most performers were in effect mimicking overseas performers, primarily American.
I think Slim had a genuine authenticity to him, even if the music wasn't exactly to our taste.
Environmentalist Phillip Toyne was a great mentor to you. How did he convince you to move into politics?
Apart from the impact of family and friends, whatever I've been involved in has been the product of other people's efforts and engagement working with me.
I've been very lucky working with the Oils. I was very lucky working with Phillip Toyne as part of the Australian Conservation Foundation.
He was a lawyer who grew up in Victoria and spent time in central Australia. He was part of the team that negotiated the handback of Uluru.
During the Hawke and Keating governments, I came back to Canberra and there was a lot of big synchronised movements happening. This was particularly around the issues of forests.
Phillip was smart and switched on and as soon as I'd finished my music career he was on the phone about my political career.
Why the Australian Labor Party?
As the Oils, we'd been an unofficial Labor campaign base in a very Liberal seat on Sydney's north shore.
[Former Australian Greens leader] Bob Brown had approached me and I was approached by the Democrats at one stage too.
I felt Labor would suit me and that if I looked at Australia's modern history – there's still a big gap with reconciliation – but most of the social reforms have come through Labor governments.
It was the right place for me to go and I don't regret it at all. We got a lot done, even though it was difficult with the Rudd-Gillard stuff.
Top image: Midnight Oil frontman Peter Garrett. Photo: Dania Distortion
From the archivesMidnight OilmusicPeter Garrett
Fashion, sex and drag: Vivienne Westwood's queer legacy
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From killer robot to sweatshop boss: Santa on screen
Science fiction portrayals of Santa Claus range from sinister to downright bizarre.
Top diplomat and Indigenous songwriter honoured with ANU degrees
One of Australia's most decorated diplomats and a member of the ARIA Hall of Fame are among those who have been celebrated with honorary degrees from ANU this week, as part of the University's end-of-year graduation ceremonies. | the '70s.
Many people came through to play and I think for some of them they wondered why they were here.
[US blues | 29 |
AU News
Brad Pitt jokes he's going to add SAG win to his 'Tinder profile'
up to 20GB GDDR6 RAM
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TOWIE's Pete Wicks backs Chloe Sims romance with Pamela Anderon's ex Adil Rami
Pete Wicks has thrown his support behind his best friend Chloe Sims' blossoming relationship with French footballer Adil Rami.
The TOWIE star, 30, confessed that while things between him and Chloe remain purely platonic (despite fans' wishes), he feels incredibly protective towards his co-star and is fully backing her recent dates with Pamela Anderson's ex.
The TV favourite chatted exclusively to MailOnline about his cheeky new campaign for Captain Morgan, as well as all the latest TOWIE gossip and why he's backing his ex Megan McKenna to win The X Factor: Celebrity.
'Chloe deserves to be happy': TOWIE favourite Pete Wicks has thrown his support behind his best friend Chloe Sims' blossoming relationship with French footballer Adil Rami
Dashing fan hopes for him and Chloe, 36, to get together, Pete said: 'Me and Chloe get on so well. She's one of the closest people to me and I absolutely love her to bits.
'If we were in a relationship together we'd probably end up killing each other! We're both quite fiery. I think people would love to see it though.'
The pair recently had a psychic reading after Chloe became convinced they were soulmates, where they discovered they had supposedly known each other in their past lives.
But in this lifetime, romance is off the cards – despite the pair looking very cosy during a boozy night out last week.
'Right now me and Chloe are good friends and that's the way we like it. If it's not broke, don't fix it', Pete said.
The mother-of-one made headlines a few weeks ago when she was seen leaving London hotspot Chiltern Firehouse in the company of dashing football star Adil – best known for dating Baywatch babe Pamela.
New man: Chloe was recently seen leaving London hotspot Chiltern Firehouse in the company of dashing football star Adil – best known for Pamela Anderson (pictured together in May)
Throwing his support behind their unlikely romance, Pete said: 'I wasn't surprised, I knew she was going on a date. I know she had a good time. I think he lives in a different country so I don't know when they're planning on seeing each other again.'
Adil parted ways with Pamela this summer following her allegations 'mental abuse' and accusations of violence and cheating – all of which he has strenuously denied.
Meanwhile, Chloe has had a tough year after her ill-fated romance with co-star Dan Edgar left her heartbroken when<|fim_middle|> ready to be in a relationship. I'm so busy at the moment, it's nice to just enjoy being single.
'I've been stuck in relationships a couple of times and it's not good for them or for me, no one wants to be in a relationship you shouldn't be in.'
Pete's chequered romantic past includes an explosive, on/off relationship with Megan McKenna, which ended after it emerged he had been sexting his ex Jacqui Ryland, an ill-fated fling with Shelby Tribble and most recently a dalliance with single mum Georgina Elizabeth Mullins after meeting on Celebs Go Dating.
Proving his bitter split with Megan is all water under the bridge, however, Pete said he would love to see his ex-girlfriend win X Factor: Celebrity.
He enthused: 'I think she'll do really well, I think she'll win it because she has an amazing voice. I know she's really happy about doing it.
'I think she'll surprise a lot of people, a lot of people have a perception of Megan that's totally untrue and I think she'll change people's minds about her!'.
'I think she'll surprise a lot of people': Proving his bitter split with Megan McKenna is all water under the bridge Pete said he would love to see his ex-girlfriend win X Factor: Celebrity
'I respect his decision': Sam Mucklow has quit TOWIE after just one year – and he's rumoured to be bringing girlfriend Shelby Tribble (Pete's ex) with him
Meanwhile, Pete has been having a ball on TOWIE this series, trying his best to stay out of all the drama – with the exception of a minor blip concerning close pal Dan's girlfriend Amber Turner.
Insisting he wasn't going to be giving his two cents on other people's problems in future, he said, 'people don't seem to like my opinion. Dan's a good friend of mine. So be it. I wish them all the best. I made my feelings clear to Amber.'
It's been all change in TOWIE this week, with Sam Mucklow making the decision to depart after just one year – and he's rumoured to be bringing girlfriend Shelby Tribble with him.
Throwing his support behind Sam's choice, he said: 'Everyone's got to do what's the right thing for them. If he feels like it's what he's got to do then I wish him all the best. I like Sam. I respect his decision.'
As for his ex Shelby, who has suffered a series of fallouts with her girlfriends, Pete is glad she's being taken care of by Sam – whether that's on or off the TV show.
'Shelby's a really lovely girl, things didn't work out between us, but her and Sam seem really happy', he said.
Cheers! Pete has been busy filming a new Captain Morgan campaign, doing his best male model impression in the spoof aftershave ad
Staying single: 'My love life's dead in the water', he laughed. 'I haven't got the best past when it comes to women'
'As much as she might have had a rough time, she's had Sam to back her and to be her rock. I think she'll be fine, I don't know what her situation is at the moment. Everyone deserves to be happy and obviously they make each other happy.'
Fans needn't worry about Pete going anywhere though.
Branding himself the Ian Beale of TOWIE, the veteran cast member – who is one of the longest-serving cast members following an influx of newcomers – insisted he has no intentions of leaving the show any time soon 'unfortunately for some people, I'm sure!'.
Pete has been busy filming a new Captain Morgan campaign, doing his best male model impression in the spoof aftershave ad.
The cheeky reality star throws smoldering looks at the camera to promote their festive new Gingerbread Spiced flavoured drink, which is available in Asda stores and Green King pubs nationwide.
'It's such a fun brand and I'm a massive rum drinker so it was the perfect fit for me', he explained. 'The concept of the ad is so good, it's like a spoof aftershave ad, I really enjoyed doing it.'
'The rum tastes amazing as well, it's the perfect cosy drink for this time of year', he added.
Pete has teamed up with the famously playful rum brand, Captain Morgan, to create a spoof aftershave ad in ode to its new limited edition, gloriously gingerbread flavoured drink that happens to smell incredible – Gingerbread Spiced.
Bottoms up: The cheeky reality star throws smoldering looks at the camera to promote Captain Morgan's festive new Gingerbread Spiced flavoured drink
Previous article Prince Harry and Meghan Markle say they have 'single-handedly modernised the monarchy'
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Two months later, how are you liking the Galaxy Note 10? | he went crawling back to his ex Amber Turner.
Feeling like a protective big brother, Pete said: 'Chloe deserves to be happy and whatever makes her happy, I'm there for.
'I am quite protective over Chloe, she has been messed around a bit and she deserves all the happiness in the world. Hopefully, one day she'll find her prince charming!'
The cheeky Essex chappy isn't looking for Mrs Wicks any time soon, however, declaring he's on a dating ban.
Just friends: Romance is off the cards for Pete and Chloe– despite the pair looking very cosy during a boozy night out last week
He said of Chloe: 'If we were in a relationship together we'd probably end up killing each other! We're both quite fiery. I think people would love to see it though'
'My love life's dead in the water', he laughed. 'I haven't got the best past when it comes to women. I think a lot of time it's because I'm just not | 207 |
Home » Online Appointments
Here are the latest appointments within the industry.
SFA Saniflo, Inc. announced that
Greg Jameshas been appointed Western regional sales manager, a position that requires managing the company's network of independent sales representatives in the 23 U.S. states west of the Mississippi. James comes to Saniflo with more than 22 years of experience in the plumbing industry.
Bradford White Corp. announced thatRobert Mikushas been promoted to parts team leader from customer service rep for parts and product analyst. Mikus is responsible for overseeing the daily operations of parts order management. The company also announced the promotion ofRobert G. McKenneyto the position of district sales manager. During his five years with the company, McKenney has held positions as Product Analyst and Assistant Regional Sales Manager.
The National Fire Protection Association (NFPA) announced the election of new officers and members to its board<|fim_middle|> via best practices in independent, objective and practical hand hygiene solutions.
Elkay Mfg. Co.'s Plumbing Products Division has announced a new management structure and key personnel appointments. The sales department will be dividing into two regions with a senior executive handling each region.Pat Mulveyis now the vice president of trade sales and market development for the East region.Mark Whittingtonis now the vice president of trade sales and market development for the West region.Mike Purcellhas been promoted to a national account manager. Joining Elkay's marketing department in the newly created role of director of marketing services isTom Samanic, formerly the director of strategic implementation.
LA-CO Industries, Inc./Markal Company has namedTony Blaskoskias director of sales across all business units including plumbing, industrial and agricultural, according to Dan Kleiman, CEO. In his new position, Blaskoski oversees all sales for business units in the United States and Canada. His responsibilities include managing relationships with distributors and end user customers while growing sales and capitalizing on new opportunities.
Online News: Industry Appointments | of directors during its World Safety Conference and Exposition.Warren E. McDanielsis chairman,Philip C. Stittleburgis secretary,Vincent Bollonis treasurer,Thomas F. Jaegeris second vice chair andPaul M. Fitzgeraldis first vice chair. New members areMichael I. CallananandErnest J. Grant, both of whom will serve three-year terms.
Eva Fox, vice president of marketing for T&S Brass and Bronze Works, has been appointed to the Handwashing Leadership Forum of Handwashing For Life®, an organization that seeks to minimize the risk of foodborne illness | 125 |
The S7 sunglasses feature a playful aesthetic, combining smoothed spherical cut lenses with<|fim_middle|> accompanied with a sleek nero leather hard case.
The case is lined with a protective micro fiber interior.
Each piece is hand crafted using 1,040 man-hours of production. | a double wire bridge. The S7 has an ultra-light curved frame, creating a sleek floating structure.
The frame is hand constructed using pure aviation grade titanium. The floating lenses are handmade from compound resin No.39 which is derived purely from organic materials.
The S7 is hand crafted by artisans in Japan, spending 1,040 man-hours to create each pair.
Finished with Custom Onyx crystal tip individually hand placed by an artisan jeweller.
Features titanium nose pads, which are engraved and carefully fitted for optimum comfort and durability.
Lens constructed from NO.39 Organic Compound Resin.
If required, these glasses can be fitted with prescriptive lenses.
Şener Besim eyewear is | 142 |
Jenn and Romy: We Made it to Berkeley!!
After a long long drive, we finally made to to Berkeley. The drive was really nice, at least the second half. We drove through Iowa, then exciting Nebraska, and then into Colorado. We passed over the Rockies on the second day, and drove into Utah. Utah near Moab was the first place we<|fim_middle|> it to Reno, and then got back onto I-80 over the Sierra Navada's and into California. We camped out in Auburn, where we had our first shower since leaving Chicago!!!
Now we are in Berkeley, on campus. We got our UC Berkeley ID cards today, and hopefully we'll start looking at apartments soon!
The pick up truck is all packed up with our boxes and ready to go!
Saying goodbye to family. Left to right: Bill, Mom, Nicole, Jenn, Romy.
Filling up at the gas station in the Rocky Mountains, Colorado.
Setting up camp in Utah, in the Fishlake National Forest.
The bus in tow. Driving through the Nevada desert along Hwy 50.
A dust devil swirling on Nevada salt flats.
Our HUGE Public Storage space. We moved in for only $1. We have room to store the Daewoo or the Bus inside along with all of our stuff.
A foggy day over San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge! | stopped and ventured off the highway. We got off of I-70 and drove along the Colorado River into Moab, where we had lunch on Friday. Then we barely made it out of Utah that day. We camped out in Fishlake National Forest, near the Nevada border. On Saturday, we headed into the long and lonely Nevada desert on Hwy 50. We expected Nevada to be really dry and dead, but it was surprisingly green and mountainous. Towards the end of the day, we made | 104 |
Installation view: Correlations & Constellations, Galleri Rotor, Gothenburg, Sweden.
Over the past couple of years, I have exhibited a variety of photographic works in solo and<|fim_middle|> Valand Academy respectively, Bridge is currently a sessional lecturer in Photography at Canterbury Christ Church University. Bridge's practice is characterized by his continued investigation into the dualities found between photographic language, his mother tongue (English) and his recently learned mother's tongue (Swedish). It is within these dualities that his practice operates—never one or the other, English or Swedish, analogue or digital, one twin or the other, but in fact always both.
Click here for more of Thom's work. | group presentations, ranging from straight-forward prints to sculptural works and installations. Previously exhibited as connected constellations or in tandem with other works, this showcase brings together four interlinked photographic works that each address the materiality and specificity of photographic printmaking and papers.
From the material systems exploited by the simultaneously positive/negative and digital/analogue manifestations of Elite the manipulated packaging of a 1980s photographic consumable, to the playful systematic tessellation of photographic materials cut to standard paper sizes used in photography in Fält, to the sequential layered, light-damaged colourations of Superpositions; each of these distinct works offer mediations upon the numerous inherent and inherited systems within photomedia.
In the fourth and final work (After a while, light always revenges itself for having been taken prisoner — it gathers itself back) vernacular images of the moon's terminator, the line between light and dark, sunrise and sunset, are photocopied onto chemically unfixed black and white photographic paper which changes colour as it reacts to light during the course of an exhibition.
Born 1987 in Reading, UK, Thom Bridge is a half British, half Swedish photographer and artist working in London. Educated in both Britain and Sweden, at the University for the Creative Arts at Farnham and | 266 |
Home›Destinations›Middle East and Africa›Israel›The Dead Sea and the Negev›Beersheva
Beersheva
Things to Do in Beersheva
83km (52 miles) S of Jerusalem; 113km (70 miles) SE of Tel Aviv
For thousands of years, Beersheva<|fim_middle|> Buy Now
Frommer's EasyGuide to Paris 2019 Buy Now | was a trading post and desert watering hole; its modern history as a settled town dates only from its founding as a small outpost of the Ottoman-Turkish Empire in 1907. The book of Genesis contains two versions of the story of the town's origin. The first tells of a covenant made between Abraham and Abimelech over a well that Abraham had dug in the desert here. The second story also involves a well (in Hebrew, be'er) dug by the servants of Isaac, who gave the well and the town its name: "And he called it Shebah: therefore the name of the city is Beer-sheba unto this day." The phrase "from Dan to Beersheva" appears repeatedly throughout the Bible. Dan was at the northern boundary of traditional Israelite territory; Beersheva at the southern end.
Today, Beersheva is the capital of the northern Negev, and a sprawling city of 250,000 inhabitants, with housing projects, shopping malls, and newer districts of detached and semidetached homes surrounded by increasingly lush gardens. The ever-expanding Ben-Gurion University rivals the universities at Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and Haifa, and is the pride of the city. Immigrants from more than 70 nations have settled here, and tucked away throughout the city you'll find unusual synagogues, cultural centers, and shops serving these diverse communities. But the region still doesn't have enough jobs for its people, and Beersheva, like other towns in the Negev, faces serious economic problems.
Tourism-wise? Beersheva's Sinfonietta is so good that world capitals would kill to have it, and a bit of community atmosphere can be found in the old downtown district, where there are a few authentic, long-running family eateries, plus some cafes with occasional live entertainment. The "Well of Abraham" site has been excavated, but in the crush of the city, you don't get much feel for the exotic, tribal oasis described in the Bible. A much-touted Thursday-at-dawn Bedouin market is now mostly ultracheap junk (excellent Bedouin crafts can be found at the Lakiya Bedouin/Negev Weaving project). But the city offers little atmosphere, ancient or modern, and only one decent hotel (which at press time was busy housing Israelis evacuated from Gaza in 2005). Unless you're visiting the university, you'll find Arad, The Dead Sea, and Mitzpe Ramon are better bases for overnighting if you want to explore the beauty of the Negev landscape.
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Frommer's EasyGuide to Disney World, Universal and Orlando 2019 | 574 |
A Business Intelligence Analytical Pattern provides the blueprint for delivering cost effective analytical capabilities (business intelligence applications and data warehouses).
Analyse and Present the information through reports and analytical tools (spreadsheets, pivot tables, statistical analysis, data visualisation, data mining, etc.).
Leverage a shared data environment where data is collected, cleansed and integrated once for multiple uses.
Operate in a simplified and shared utility computing environment.
The Analytical Pattern should be used any time analytics functions of<|fim_middle|> the life of the application.
Minimising technical barriers to exchanging or integrating information.
Developing and sharing key analytical and data management competencies. | data warehouses are implemented. The Analytical Pattern can be used for a module of an application, a single application, or a suite of applications sharing a common data warehouse and/or operational data store as well as dashboards.
Analyse the past, present, and/or predict future trends. Typical functions include financial analysis, forecasting, usage analysis, performance metrics, lead finding, member segmentation, predictive analysis etc.
Discover previously unknown patterns in large amounts of structured or unstructured data.
Implement complex business rules (e.g. license shares, member distributions, optimising investment portfolio, detecting fraudulent actions, etc.).
Report or analyse data from multiple sources (internal and external). Data cleansing, integration and standardisation is usually required.
Historical reporting. This may involve producing reports from multiple, different systems that were in use at different times and with different data structures.
Business Intelligence dash-boarding which integrates the reporting environment into one user-friendly interface.
Simplify user access (making data easier to understand and navigate).
Provide more flexible report selections and formatting options.
Offload reporting workload from the transactional processing environment.
Data must be analysed along multiple business dimensions.
Data quality, simple user access, and query performance are critical.
An Analytical Pattern is designed to deliver very flexible, cost-efficient business intelligence systems and robust data warehouses that can support sustained growth and respond quickly to changing business needs. The pattern's loosely-coupled, standards-based architecture makes it possible to quickly and easily adapt to changing business needs and usage levels.
Reducing development and implementation time and cost.
Delivering flexible, adaptable solutions that are easy to change or extend.
Achieving economies of scale by leveraging common infrastructure and data.
Reducing total cost of ownership over | 344 |
SF's<|fim_middle|>'s vaccination website let ineligible Bay Area...
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By Gary Kamiya June 24, 2016 Updated: June 24, 2016 5:31 p.m.
Sunday recreation of the Spainiards in early California. Title of the painting is "The Horse Race". Photo is from the Chronicle archive.
On July 4, 1836, the hamlet of Yerba Buena threw its first party — and it was a doozy. Even San Francisco, the city that would soon replace Yerba Buena and become world-famous for its revelry, would never witness a more epic bash.
The party was thrown by Yerba Buena's second Anglo resident, an Ohio-born adventurer and businessman named Jacob Leese. Like many of Yerba Buena's early residents, Leese was a rolling stone. He left Ohio at age 12 in 1821, joining a company of hunters and trappers bound for the Rockies. By 1830 he was in New Mexico, where he transported mules before making an arduous journey to Los Angeles, during which he was forced to eat his dog.
Leese moved to Monterey in 1836, then set his sights on Yerba Buena. Although the hamlet barely existed — depending on whom you count as a resident, its population was either one, two or three — it was a natural location for a trading post. The Mexican governor, eager to stimulate commerce in the sleepy hinterlands of Alta California, had just declared Yerba Buena a pueblo, or town, and appointed its first resident, an English seaman named William Richardson, as harbormaster.
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Yerba Buena's superb harbor gave easy access to the surrounding ranchos, vast land grants given to former Mexican soldiers in the world's most lucrative G.I. bill. They raised cattle whose hides and tallow they traded for manufactured goods from Eastern states.
Leese moved to Yerba Buena in 1836 and opened a store on the southwest corner of what is now Grant Avenue and Clay Street, the heart of today's Chinatown. Richardson and his family were living 100 yards away in a lean-to made out of a ship's sail. The wooden house Leese built next to his store was the first in Yerba Buena.
Leese's store prospered, and when the Fourth of July arrived, he decided to throw a party. It would be talked about for years.
Leese invited everyone who was anyone, including all the Californio ranchers and the American sailors and officers attached to the three or four U.S. ships in harbor. According to William Heath Davis' 1889 book, "Seventy-Five Years in California," among the attendees were Don Joaquin Estudillo, whose rancho became San Leandro; former Presidio comandante Don Ygnacio Martinez; Don Victor Castro, another big rancher who had married one of Martinez's daughters; Don Francisco de Haro, the alcalde (more or less mayor) of Yerba Buena; and Don Francisco Guerrero, who would become alcalde later that year and was mysteriously murdered in 1851.
These notables, all of whom have Bay Area streets or, in Martinez's case, a town named after them, were accompanied by their wives and daughters, many of them famous beauties.
Marrying in
One of the remarkable things about Yerba Buena was the number of marriages between Anglo traders and Californio girls. Davis, who himself married a Californio, wrote, "The native Californians were about the happiest and most contented people I ever saw, as also were the foreigners who settled among them and intermarried them, adopted their customs and habits, and became, as it were, a part of themselves."
Leese would follow suit the year after his party, marrying Rosalia Vallejo, daughter of the most famous Californio of all, Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo. But if Leese had not yet married a Californio, he was savvy enough to adopt their customs. And one of those customs was throwing a world-class fiesta.
The most celebrated Californio fiestas accompanied weddings. Davis wrote of one that "lasted about a week, dancing being kept up all night with a company of at least one hundred men and women from the adjoining ranchos, about three hours after daylight being given to sleep, after which picnics in the woods were held during the forenoon, and the afternoon was devoted to bullfighting."
Leese's party could not quite measure up to that Burning Man-like bacchanalia. But it wasn't bad.
UNITED STATES - CIRCA 1884: View of San Francisco, formerly Yerba Buena, in 1846-7. Before the discovery of gold (Photo by Buyenlarge/Getty Images)
Photo: Buyenlarge, Getty Images
Raising the flag
The festivities kicked off with the raising of the American flag next to the Mexican flag, to great applause. The political tensions that would lead to war between the two countries within a decade did not yet exist.
At noon, the American ships in the harbor fired a salute, to more cheers. When the sun began to sink low, Leese held a banquet at his home, accompanied by wine, the fiery local brandy called aguardiente, music played by a six-piece orchestra and, of course, dancing.
The Californios, and in particular the Californio women, were famously fond of dancing. Davis recalled, "I was astonished at the endurance of the California women in holding out, night after night, in dancing, of which they never seemed to weary, but kept on with an appearance of freshness and elasticity that was as charming as surprising. … The men, on the other hand, became wearied, showing that their powers of endurance were not equal to those of the ladies. I have frequently heard the latter ridiculing the gentlemen for not holding out unfatigued to the end of a festival of this kind."
Dancing and drinking
The dancing lasted until dawn. After a short sleep, the entire party walked or rode to Yerba Buena's favorite picnic and pleasure site, Point Rincon, near today's First and Harrison streets. There, everyone feasted on carne asada, tamales, fruit and dulces, played guitars, sang, swam, drank wine and caroused until dark.
Then they returned to Leese's house, where they enjoyed another sumptuous repast and once again danced all night. Only the next morning, July 6, when according to Davis "the ladies became exhausted," did the party come to an end.
The annual Fourth of July party was such a success that it was repeated every year until the American conquest, when, like many lovely customs of old California, it came to an end.
Gary Kamiya is the author of the best-selling book "Cool Gray City of Love: 49 Views of San Francisco," awarded the 2013 Northern California Book Award in creative nonfiction. All the material in Portals of the Past is original for The San Francisco Chronicle. Email: metro@sfchronicle.com
Previous trivia question: Where was the Times movie theater, and how much did it charge for a double bill in 1969?
Answer: 1262 Stockton, at Broadway. Admission in 1969 was 60 cents. By the time it closed in the early 1970s, admission had gone up to $1.
This week's trivia question: Who was known as the "rudest waiter in the world"?
Every corner in San Francisco has an astonishing story to tell. Gary Kamiya's Portals of the Past tells those lost stories, using a specific location to illuminate San Francisco's extraordinary history — from the days when giant mammoths wandered through what is now North Beach to the Gold Rush delirium, the dot-com madness and beyond. His column appears every other Saturday, alternating with Peter Hartlaub's OurSF.
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Error with California | 2,170 |
The savory offerings at Romanian Garden, grilled meats and vegetable dips, tend to taste like the blander, fattier versions of what you'll find at Sunnyside's better Turkish and Lebanese restaurants. But this cafe has some charming outdoor seating on a quiet stretch of 43rd Avenue, and it's a more than pleasant place to hit up for coffee and dessert. Case in point: doughnuts topped with sour cream and jam.
Papanasi ($4) are doughnuts made with a mild cheese; here they're freshly fried with a slight cultured tanginess. True, they could be a little lighter, a smidge less chewy, but I stopped nitpicking when I had my first bite of doughnut, loose sour cream, and cherry jam all on the same<|fim_middle|> snack that won't set you out of sorts.
Romanian Garden also makes a decent Apple Strudel ($3) with a crust that's less buttery than it could be but flaky all the same. The dense, sweet apple and cinnamon filling has surprising depth, with nubby bits of walnuts adding necessary crunch. Not a perfect apple strudel, but a very satisfying one.
That's how I think about Romanian Garden as a whole, actually. But for dessert it does just fine. | fork. The doughnuts are refreshingly light on sugar, an afternoon | 14 |
World Insurance Associates rebrands, acquires two out of state agencies (updated)
Tinton Falls-based World Insurance Associates LLC (WIA), on Aug. 9 announced a company rebrand – complete with the unveiling of a new logo, visual identity and website. The rebrand comes on the heels of adding new product lines, including an entire human capital management suite, as well as expanding its leadership team.
"We have been growing our business for the past 10 years which presented us with an opportunity to establish a more compelling brand that differentiates us in the marketplace and clearly affirms the value our clients can expect when working with us," said Chief Executive Officer Rich Eknoian. "Our brand was built on trust, accessibility and industry expertise. This rebrand is a major milestone in our evolution as we further crystalize who we are for our clients and partners."
World's new logo is a modern evolution from the previous emblem with the two arcs that comprise the "O" symbolizing the two components of the new tagline – "Large Resources, Local Relationships" – WIA's differentiator in the marketplace, according to the company. It represents the idea of getting the best of both worlds.
"World is going through a rapid growth spurt and the 10-year-old brand was no longer a strong representation of our values," said Jean Wiskowski, chief marketing officer. "This was the right time to listen to our clients and really think about how we want to be perceived in the market, and to align the brand with that ethos."
Continued growth
Separately, the insurance brokerage announced Aug. 6 and Aug. 9 that it acquired Governor Insurance Agency (Governor Insurance) of Vienna, Ohio and McFarlin Insurance Agency LLP (McFarlin) of Columbia, Md. on Aug. 1, 2021.
Terms of either transaction were not disclosed.
Governor Insurance was founded as a personal lines property and casualty agency in 1947 and was purchased by Robert Thompson Sr. in 1967. The agency began offering dog grooming insurance in 1986, and soon decided to commit to continuing down this path– advertising in pet trade journals and participating in trade shows. Robert "<|fim_middle|> on the transaction. Basi Basi & Associates provided legal counsel to Governor Insurance Agency and Agency Brokerage Consultants advised it on the transaction. No other advisors, diligence firms or legal counsel were disclosed.
Regarding the acquisition of McFarlin, the retail insurance agency was headquartered in the Baltimore-Washington Metro area over 80 years ago and has the in-house capability to address a wide range of client insurance needs, including large commercial accounts, contract surety bonding, group life and health plans, and personal lines coverages.
Giordano, Halleran & Ciesla provided legal counsel to WIA, and Mystic Capital Advisors Group advised them on the transaction. Satin and Lee Law provided legal counsel to McFarlin Insurance Agency and Sica Fletcher advised them on the transaction. No other advisors, diligence firms or legal counsel were disclosed.
Since its founding in 2012, WIA has completed 109 acquisitions and serves its customers from more than 129 offices in the U.S.
Editor's Note: This article was updated on Aug. 9, 2021 at 12:19 p.m. to add the acquisition of McFarlin Insurance Agency LLP (McFarlin) of Columbia, Md.
Insurance M&A rebrand World Insurance Associates 7:44 am Mon, August 9, 2021 NJBIZ | Bob" Thompson Jr., along with his two brothers, acquired Governor Insurance from their father in 1992.
Today Governor Insurance is owned solely by Bob Thompson Jr. and continues to develop specialized packages for Pet Grooming Insurance, Mobile Dog Grooming Insurance, Boarding Kennel Insurance, Doggie Day Care Insurance, Mobile Veterinarian Insurance, Humane Shelter and Rescue Insurance.
Giordano, Halleran & Ciesla provided legal counsel to WIA, and MarshBerry advised the company | 104 |
December 13, 2021 7:22 AM AWST
Words: Phil Suriano
Photos: Phil Suriano and BMW Motorrad
Where does BMW's S 1000 R sit in the modern supernaked market? Depends on who you ask, really, as while 'supernaked' is one category, the bikes within it are quite different and appeal to riders with different tastes, riding preferences and budgets.
There's the exotic Ducati Streetfighter, MV Agusta Brutale and Aprilia Tuono at one end of the supernaked spectrum and Yamaha's MT-10 and the Kawasaki Z H2 at the other, with Triumph's Speed Triple and KTM's 1290 Super Duke somewhere in between. So where does BMW's S 1000 R fit into this field? It's an interesting question and while the BMW may not be perceived as a balls-to-the-wall supernaked beast like some of its rivals, it may just be the ideal "real world" bike in this category.
Welcome to the New-ish
Have ridden – and enjoyed – the 2018 version of the S 1000 R, I was very interested to get my hands on the 2021 update. It's not all new, but BMW have done a lot with the S 1000 R since my last experience with one. For starters, there's a new face.
That asymmetrical twin headlight treatment that gave BMW a point of difference some years ago (but repelled as many people as it attracted) has finally been removed and in its place is a new single unit LED headlight.
It's more conventional looking than what it's replacing; arguably too much and perhaps a little<|fim_middle|> 1000 R always feels well planted on the road, but the 2021 model benefits from a new, lighter frame, based on the S 1000 RR. This 'Flex Frame' construction means the engine now takes on more of a load-bearing role than previously and has a narrow cross section that makes it easy to straddle and allows more freedom of movement on the bike – not something that you'll appreciate every day but will come into its own on twisty roads and for track days.
The swingarm also comes from the S 1000 RR and moves the monoshock further away from the engine, ensuring a more consistent damping response, improved rear tyre grip and reduced rear tyre wear.
S 1000 R's engine lacks the ShiftCam tech of its S 1000 RR sibling, but can still deliver exceptional pace - easily.
Rear suspension travel is down from 120mm to 117mm, and while front suspension travel is unchanged at 120mm, the Marzocchi USD tele forks are now 45mm, instead of 46mm. Preload, rebound and compression adjustability remains at each end. Suspension settings can be dialled up or down for road use, but the standard settings are not only adequate but intuitive and provide a comfortable ride.
I have been told by BMW that I can hit a pothole at 110km/h and by the time my rear wheel has got to it, the computer has altered the suspension for the back wheel to cater for the hole – how crazy is that? It's not a claim I was game to put to the test, though!
Steering is effortless, with smooth and instant response to input. The bike is set up to take a pillion but all my time with the bike has been as a solo, with no luggage, so I can't attest to how a load impacts the handling.
Braking mostly carries over from the older model, with 320mm brake discs and four-piston calipers at the front and a 220mm disc with single-piston caliper at the rear. The difference is that Brembo calipers have been replaced with Hayes units for 2021. It's a minor change, and most S 1000 R riders probably wouldn't notice the difference, but it's a change nonetheless.
New calipers aside, the braking remains very effective. Heavy rain in Sydney during my time with this bike meant I have experienced the S 1000 R's brakes in numerous conditions and found them to be very effective and confidence inspiring.
While the S 1000 R I had on test was the base model, other variants add more features, topping out with the M-Sport variant that is available with a sports silencer, extra tech and M goodies that include a lightweight battery, lap timer, endurance chain and even carbon fibre wheels
A Naked for Everyone?
After my time on the 2021 S 1000 R, I was impressed and found the new one to be even more enjoyable than the 2018 model.
There were a couple of nice additions on the new version, like radiator guards, which can be a life saver, and the fold-out tabs on the pillion seat that make it easier to fasten a day pack or other small luggage items. But one nice surprise which I didn't realise the MY21 bike had is self-cancelling indicators. I hate it when I forget to switch off the indicators, let alone how annoying it is for other motorists, so this feature was welcome.
New-style tail features these 'vents' that look cool, but how functional they are is debatable.
My gripes over some of those styling features aside, the 2021 S 1000 R looks good, but for me, this bike's greatest asset is its versatility – it's the ultimate all-rounder.
From a track day to commuting to going on a longer weekend ride and even some touring, it's perfect. Or at least, it's perfect for me. I'm not looking for a tool that's as "sharp" as some others, so the BMW may not be for everyone.
When I asked where the BMW S 1000 R sits in the supernaked market, I believe the answer is squarely in the middle. That means if you're looking for a powerful naked bike that's as usable for commuting and touring as it is on an occasional track day, then the S 1000 R may be ideal.
S 1000 R's biggest asset is that it can be ridden as hard or as light as you want and still remain usable and functional in both capacities.
SPECIFICATIONS - 2021 BMW S 1000 R
TYPE: DOHC 16-valve 4-stroke inline four-cylinder
CAPACITY: 999cc
BORE x STROKE: 80 x 49.7mm
COMPRESSION RATIO: 12.5:1
ENGINE START: Electric
IGNITION: Twin-spark
INDUCTION: EFi
COOLING: Oil/Water
MAX POWER: 121.0kW at 11,000rpm
MAX TORQUE: 114.0Nm at 9,250rpm
MAX SPEED: 200km/h+
CLUTCH: Wet, multi-plate
FRAME: Bridge-type aluminium
FRONT SUSPENSION: 45mm USD telescopic fork, fully adjustable
REAR SUSPENSION: Full-floater monoshock, fully adjustable
FRONT WHEEL: 17-inch cast aluminium
REAR WHEEL: 17-inch cast aluminium
FRONT TYRE: Dunlop SportSmart TT 120/70 ZR17
REAR TYRE: Dunlop SportSmart TT 190/55 ZR17
FRONT BRAKE: Dual 320mm discs w/four-piston fixed calipers and ABS
REAR BRAKE: 220mm disc w/single-piston floating caliper and ABS
LxWxH: 2090mm x 812mm x 1115mm
WHEELBASE: 1450mm
RAKE: 24.2 degrees
TRAIL: 96mm
GROUND CLEARANCE: N/A
SEAT HEIGHT: 830mm
WET WEIGHT: 199kg
FUEL CAPACITY: 16.5lt
Racing Red, Hockenheim Silver (Style Sport), Light White (M Motorsport)
LAMS APPROVED: No
PRICE: From $22,691 ride away
WARRANTY: 36 months, Unlimited Km
bmw-motorrad.com.au
Phil Suriano | bland.
The space between the headlight and new TFT instrument screen is a little bit messy, but there's an accessory flyscreen available to cover that.
All the other plastics have been restyled, too, to better effect than the headlight, in my view. And as I wasn't a fan of the old tail, I particularly liked the new "vented" treatment and kick-up of the MY21 model's tail that lends a racy, European look.
The handlebars are flatter and wider, the front indicators have been relocated to the forks and BMW have done some clever things with colour, too, like blacking out the yokes, bars, bar risers and levers. BMW have also finally replaced the bulky and ugly front brake master cylinder with a slimmer, more attractive unit.
Looking at the studio images, this approach seems to have been taken with every version of the MY21 S 1000 R, from the base model that I had on test to Sport, Race and M-Sport variants. The base model also blacks out the subframe, whereas the others have a pale gold finish.
While that headlight is a little bit of a letdown, the catalytic converter that hangs under the swingarm is worse. I understand it's necessary to meet Euro5 requirements, but it's a big, fat eyesore. Adding a bellypan or even coating the cat in black heatproof paint could have made it less obvious.
The other contentious styling element – but not in my opinion – is the rear light treatment.
Like some other BMW models for 2021, the latest S 1000 R does away with a traditional tail/stop light and incorporates both these functions into the rear indicators.
Some have criticised this, claiming that the indicators aren't visible when you're braking. Of course, braking and indicating are functions that are usually combined, so I can see the critics' point, but it's not something I've experienced or am in agreeance with. What I will say is that the LED tail/stop/indicator lights are very bright.
The overall result of the styling makeover is that the 2021 S 1000 R looks good and more aggressive than the MY20 S 1000 R.
Styling has been altered from nose to tail for 2021. Racing Red is one of two available colours for the base model MY21 S 1000 R, with Hockenheim Silver the other.
Ergos and Updates
On the ergonomic front, the MY21 S 1000 R has a higher seat than the version it's replacing – 830mm versus 813mm - but to compensate, the cross section is narrower. I'm 1.78m (5'10"), so the change wasn't a problem for me, but I can see shorter riders looking for the 810mm accessory seat option.
Height aside, the new seat is comfortable and supportive, which given its slimness and design is impressive.
Marzocchi forks remain, but brake calipers are now Held units, instead of Brembo.
Riding position is quite neutral, as you want from a naked, with a slight lean forward to reach those flatter, wider handlebars.
After experiencing the MY18 S 1000 R's switchgear, everything on the MY21 version was familiar, but if you're a newcomer to the model, you'll work it all out very quickly as everything is positioned and logically labelled with Germanic efficiency.
My last experience with an S 1000 R had a combined analogue-digital dash. That's been replaced with a colour TFT screen that offers a customisable display and has Bluetooth smartphone interface as standard, allowing app-based turn-by-turn navigation.
With all the important information prioritised and colours used for differentiation, everything on the 6.5-inch screen is easy to see at a glance – it's a huge improvement over the old instrument display.
All-new headlight design for 2021 adds this "smiley face" DRL. Selected S 1000 R model grades also feature cornering lights incorporated into this new LED unit.
The 2021 S 1000 R is based on the MY19 version of the S 1000 RR, but it's not a superbike without a fairing. For starters, the 999cc DOHC 16-valve inline four-cylinder engine lacks the ShiftCam technology of the RR, so that means less maximum power – 121kW versus 151kW – but torque is almost identical at 114Nm v 113Nm.
You don't feel cheated without those extra 30kW, though. Anything but, actually, as the S 1000 R is still a very fast bike. Maximum power was upgraded from 118kW to 121kW at 11,000rpm on the 2020 model S 1000 R, so there's no change on that front for the 2021 version. There is an increase in maximum torque, though, up from 112Nm to 114Nm at 9,250rpm.
The 6.5-inch TFT screen is part of a rethink of the control area that's not only more functional, but more aesthetically pleasing, too.
According to BMW, engine speed range has been made "wider and fuller," with a "markedly linear torque curve, too." More simply put, the MY21 S 1000 R is easier to ride.
BMW says the drivetrain is lighter by 5kg, part of an overall weight reduction of 6kg (wet) compared to the MY20 model, which includes a lighter exhaust.
Other changes for the 2021 model include the adoption of engine drag torque control (MSR in BMW parlance) that reduces rear wheel slip under deceleration and when downshifting. There's no traditional ignition key, either, replaced with a proximity key and ignition button that takes a bit of getting used to.
Like the previous model, take off on the new S 1000 R was super smooth and that inline four is extremely forgiving, allowing you to take off in second or even third gear if you haven't changed down at a stop.
Clever touches include these fold-out tabs under the pillion pad to allow fastening of small luggage items.
The electronic throttle is light, requiring very little wrist action to get the S 1000 R moving, and when it is moving, power delivery is super smooth. BMW claims a wider engine speed range with the 2021 model and I can't disagree - it's just the most beautiful bike to ride in the city, be it through heavy stop-start traffic or crawling along at a snail's pace, thanks to that effortless throttle movement.
Counteracting this slow-speed trundling is an ability to get up to licence-losing speeds very quickly – even in first gear. That speed range makes the S 1000 R not only great for everyday commuting, but also touring, weekend rides on your favourite twisty road and track days.
Gear changes are as smooth as the acceleration, thanks to a new anti-hopping clutch for 2021, while the introduction of longer ratios for the fourth, fifth and sixth gears allow more relaxed cruising on highways and long country roads. The standard cruise control helps here, too.
Riding modes have been expanded, with the previously optional Dynamic mode joining the existing Rain and Road modes as standard across the MY21 S 1000 R range (other grades add more options). Other rider assistance and safety tech is mostly carryover from the 2020 model, including ABS Pro and Hill Start Control.
The key change at the rear is the deletion of a central stop/brake light, with these functions now incorporated into the indicators.
Flex Frame added, Suspension tweaked
In terms of the handling, the S | 1,700 |
PARTNERSHIP'S PR NEEDS BIG BOOST;NOT BANKING ON IT; COUNTRY LEAP; UPMARKET HERMAN; BETTER FOR BROOKLYN; PUBLISHING GAMBLE; CORPORATE WATCH
Few things are simple at the Grand Central Partnership these days, including who is representing it to the press.
The business improvement district recently approached spin meister extraordinaire Howard Rubenstein about representing it just as the bad press was piling up. The partnership and its executive director, Dan Biederman, have been under fire for helping Jersey City, a prime competitor for city jobs, develop its own BID. Then the partnership's social services program was accused of roughing up homeless people.
Perhaps not coincidentally, when Mr. Rubenstein started work on a project for the Partnership, the group's longtime public relations person, Bruce Cohen, resigned effective today.
But then Mr. Rubenstein decided to back out himself. He already works for several other BIDs, including the Times Square BID, whose relations with Grand Central are rocky. Other organizations are worried that the attention Grand Central is attracting may prompt more government oversight.
"It was clear that something's going on among these groups, and I perceived it as a conflict of interest to represent Grand Central and the others," says Mr. Rubenstein.
With Mr. Rubenstein gone, Mr. Cohen rescinded his resignation, which he says was for<|fim_middle|> Wednesday to give a formal denial. The banks plan to go ahead with the project without the city's help.
Tentatively called the Community Investment Corp., the fund would provide financing for small businesses located in low- and moderate-income neighborhoods that have difficulty getting traditional financing.
It was a rough ratings period for many New York radio stations-except one.
While most major stations took a drubbing at the hands of KISS-FM's strong new soul music format, once-troubled country station WYNY-FM returned to health with a nice leap in the Arbitron ratings.
It posted a 3.0 share of the 25- to 54-year-old set in the January-to-March survey, up from a 2.0 share last year. This rating made it No. 9 among all stations targeted to that group. Those numbers are even stronger in WYNY's key listening areas, New Jersey and Long Island. The other good news: Time spent listening-a key advertising barometer-is now 10 hours per week, up two hours from a year earlier.
What turned things around for the outlet? WYNY-a station owned by Broadcasting Partners Inc., which will soon merge with Evergreen Media Corp.-found the right music mix. After flirting with a country hits-oriented format, it added more tunes from the mid-to-late 1980s to the formula.
"It took us some time but we have figured out what the audience wants," says General Manager Steve . "We now know our product is on target."
Herman's Sporting Goods Inc. plans to join such noted Rockefeller Center attractions as the Rainbow Room, the NBC studios and the world-famous ice skating rink when it opens a two-level store at 30 Rockefeller Plaza in October.
The 15,000-square-foot store is being designed by James Mansour Ltd., which handled the Henri Bendel and Warner Brothers Studio sites on Fifth Avenue, and Christopher Barriscale Architects. It will include terrazzo wood floors and mahogany paneling. The preliminary design has been approved by the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission.
The store will be the ninth outlet in Manhattan for Herman's, which emerged from bankruptcy last year. The company plans to open its eighth store, on the northeast corner of 86th Street and Lexington Avenue, by the end of this month.
Giuliani administration officials are preparing a package of development incentives for Brooklyn in an effort to persuade Councilman Herbert E. Berman, D-Brooklyn, to reverse his opposition to the mayor's plan to revitalize downtown Manhattan. Mr. Berman says he fears the plan will boost development in Manhattan at Brooklyn's expense, but he has indicated that some goodies for Brooklyn could change his mind.
As chairman of the powerful finance committee, as well as dean of the council's Brooklyn delegation, Mr. Berman will play a key role in determining the fate of the downtown proposal. Observers say council members from other boroughs who are less than enthusiastic about the plan will be looking to him for direction.
The mayor and downtown business leaders want the City Council and the state Legislature to approve the plan before legislators adjourn early this summer.
Forget fortune cookies. There's now an easier way to nail down the winning Lotto numbers.
LottoWorld, the first national consumer magazine devoted solely to lotteries, hits newsstands next month, offering tips and strategies for getting a leg up on this big game of chance. The glossy title-published by Naples, Fla.-based Dynamic World Distributors Inc.-will debut in 23 states with regional editions, including issues covering New York city and state as well as New Jersey.
Editor in Chief Rich Holman says he hopes LottoWorld will serve as a "TV Guide for the lotto-playing public." The newsstand price will be $1.75-or about four chances in the New York Lotto.
New Yorkers downsized out of their careers might want to consider a new one: watchmaking. The Joseph Bulova School, the only local institute specializing in the jewelry and watchmaking trades, has snared a grant from the city's Department of Employment to retrain 95 workers caught in corporate cutbacks.
The school says there's plenty of demand for skilled watchmakers. Some of its graduates are employed at places like Cartier and Tiffany, and graduates earn salaries comparable to professionals like engineers.
The Bulova school has been around since 1945, when it was formed to provide war veterans with a marketable skill.
Sponsored Content: What Covid-19 taught us about underserved communities in health care | personal reasons. "The personal reasons are resolved," says Mr. Cohen.
Because of the city budget crisis, the New York City Economic Development Corp. has decided not to participate in a $10 million loan and investment fund that the city's 12 largest banks are attempting to launch.
City officials will meet with disappointed bankers on | 67 |
Opening Day for Trails Encourages Runners to Get Back Outdoors
Trail networks across the country celebrate third annual event March 28.
by Ashley Rodriguez Published: Mar 24, 2015
With spring's arrival, it's time to say adios to the treadmill and rekindle your love for the outdoors. Runners across the country can do just that when they celebrate the third annual Opening Day for Trails on March 28.
Hosted by Rails-to-Trails Conservancy, Opening Day for Trails was inspired by the excitement many have around opening day for baseball, but for all outdoor enthusiasts. Local organizations will host a variety of events geared toward encouraging runners, cyclists, walkers, and even bird-watchers to get outside and enjoy America's trail networks.
"It's time for people to shake off the winter and rediscover their favorite trails," said Katie Harris, communications coordinator for the Rails-to-Trails Conservancy. "More than 10,000 people pledged [through railstotrails.org] to get out on the trails. It's incredibly exciting and really shows how much demand there is for trails."
There are more than 30 events planned across 11 states and the District of Columbia, but Harris said with every year the event's popularity grows.
"Our first year was a small event, mainly just encouragement for people to get out on trails," she said. "We've grown quite a bit. People have latched on to it."
Here are a few running events happening around the country this weekend. For more events and to take the pledge, check out railstotrails.org/openingday or visit traillink.com to find a local trail.
Wyanet, Illinois
During the two-day event, runners will have the chance to preview a section of the new Hennepin Hundred ultramarathon course happening this September on the Hennepin Canal Parkway. (As an added bonus, this section of course is apparently great for spotting bald eagles.)
It's a "run as much as you want" event, said Steve Buchtel, executive director of Trails for Illinois. Saturday's run can last anywhere<|fim_middle|> above Palo Alto.
Participants will receive REI-branded gear, enjoy postrace refreshments, and there will be prizes for top finishers. It's only $15 to register and kicks off at 9:15 a.m. Get more info on the 5K and 10K here.
Runners can learn more about the Washington, D.C. metro area's vast trail network by dropping by its trail festival from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. in Rosslyn, Virginia, where Rails-to-Trails Conservancy and several regional partners will be on site. Click here for more information.
5 Reasons to Run Trail
Etiquette for Trail Runners
Ashley Rodriguez
Author, blogger, and cook Ashley Rodriguez shares her favorite, family-friendly recipes as a regular Woman's Day food columnist. The cook behind the blog _Not Without Salt, two cookbooks (Date Night In and Let's Stay In), and award-winning video series Kitchen Unnecessary — plus mom of three — definitely knows a thing or two about keeping everyone in the family happy and fed.
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How Many Turkey Trotters Raced on Thanksgiving? | from 2 to 25 miles and participants can make a day of it by sticking around for the potluck picnic in the evening and stay the night at a campground.
On Sunday, runners can hit the trails again for a 2- to 10-mile run and potluck breakfast. Check out the event's Facebook page for more details and to RSVP.
Santa Clara County, California
REI will host a 5K and 10K race through the picturesque Skyline Ridge Open Space Preserve, about one mile south of Page Mill Road | 112 |
Keyline, the UK<|fim_middle|>'s work with PCUK has helped them gauge a better understanding of the cancer. In addition to this, a shocking 41 per cent stated that prior to joining Keyline, they were not aware of prostate cancer and its effects. It's rewarding to see that Keylines efforts have gone a long way in raising awareness about the cancer, along with the great deal of money they have managed to raise for such a great cause too.
For further information about Keyline, please visit www.keyline.co.uk. To help contribute towards this fantastic fundraiser please visit and donate https://keylinerally.co.uk/ and if you cant donate please ensure you spread the word about being aware of Prostate Cancer. | 's largest supplier of Civils & Drainage solutions, has proudly announced it will be extending its existing corporate partnership with Prostate Cancer UK by five years.
Keyline has been working in partnership with Prostate Cancer UK (PCUK) since 2009 and hosts a number of regional and national fundraisers every year to raise awareness and funds for this great cause. Keyline's Annual Rally is the main focal point of this and in its 9th year has exceeded £1million, from the Rally alone.
This year the Keyline Rally was themed the 'Millionaires Rally' and it took place in the original rally location, Monaco. The rally consisted of 30 cars and 70 drivers split into four teams, who departed from Keyline HQ in Swan Valley, Northampton and drove against the clock through to Monte-Carlo over five days.
Long standing supporter of PCUK and ex-professional footballer and manager, Luther Blissett took part in his car alongside wife, Lauren Fox. Joining Luther in bringing some celebrity sparkle was Tommy Walsh, English TV personality, presenter and celebrity builder, best known for his role in the Nation's favourite, Ground Force. This was Tommy's first time taking part in the rally, but he is also a long-standing supporter of PCUK.
Along with all the work Keyline has put in to raise money for PCUK, they are also keen to make sure their own male-dominated workforce is fully informed of the silent disease – which is why they surveyed them to see how much awareness has been created. A staggering 82 per cent answered that Keyline | 328 |
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Seconds after signing up, we will set you up with a website on one of our test domains. This website will have real content, from real churches that you will find easy to tweak for your church (or start over). No blank pages!
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Copyright | 337 |
With the Windows 10 October Update well underway there comes the inevitable issues with applying the update. While some users can run through the update process without a hitch, others only appear to get so far before the PC reboots and rolls back the changes; some don't even get that far.
An update as complex as this requires a lot of components to fall into line. Although Microsoft have put the update through rigorous testing, on a wide variety of different system specifications, there will always be some systems out there that refuse to behave the way you or the update wants.
Sometimes a fix can come from simply updating one of the drivers on the system. For example, one of our systems wouldn't apply the October Update until we had installed the latest Nvidia driver. More often<|fim_middle|>, then close the Services console window. Now open the Windows Update and Security window, and click the Check for updates button as normal.
Windows should now start to download a fresh copy of the October Update, and with luck, it will work for you this time. If not, then the problem is likely deeper into the system. Make a note of the error code and check out the Microsoft TechNet Blog pages (https://blogs.technet.microsoft.com/) to see if there are any solutions relating to your error code. | than not, though, the issue could be something to do with a bad downloaded file.
Consider the sheer number of downloaded files that make up an update. Once the update is unpacked these files are executed accordingly and applied to the system. Should one of those have become corrupt at some point, then the entire process will be hit with an update error. To stop the system from becoming unusable, Windows is clever enough to stop the process and roll back to its previous state.
It's often necessary then, when dealing with an uncooperative update, to clear the update cache – all the files that Windows has downloaded in order to apply the update – and start re-downloading from fresh. Here's how it's done.
Step 1 – Start by clicking on the Windows Start Button and typing 'services'. Click on the Services (Desktop App) link in the search results. This will launch the Services Management Console. Scroll down until you come to Windows Update. This is the service that controls the entire Windows Update process. Click the entry, then click 'Stop the service', located in the upper-left of the Services console window.
Step 2 – Keep the Services console window open, but now click on File Explorer and navigate to C:\Windows\SoftwareDistribution\Download. Highlight all the files and folders within this directory, use CTRL+A to select all, and hit the Delete key. This will delete all the Microsoft update files that the system has so far downloaded, ready to be applied.
Step 3 – Close File Explorer, and click back to the Services console window. Make sure the Windows Update service is highlighted and click on Start the service. Wait for the service's Status to say Running | 342 |
The Janome 2212 is a quality entry level sewing machine at<|fim_middle|>: Slit type.
• Carrying handle: Folding type.
• Body construction: Skeleton type.
• Classification: Mechanical sewing machine.
• Machine dimensions: 14.09 inches W x 11.57 inches H x 5.90 inches L. | a fantastic price. It is a great machine for the new or returning sewist. It has 12 built in stitches, including a four-step buttonhole. The easy to use dial on the front of the machine controls stitch width and pattern selection.
Advanced features like free arm and drop feed makes this a machine that will grow along with your sewing skills. There are great convenience features like abuilt-in thread cutter and snap on presser feet.
• Bed type: free arm / flat bed convertible.
• Screen: Pre-printed on the front panel.
• Maximum speed: 860 spm.
• Number of built-in stitches: 12 stitches including buttonhole.
• Type of buttonhole: 4-step.
• Thread tension control: Manual.
• Feed dog: 3 piece.
• Drop feed dog: Yes (with slide lever).
• Presser foot: Snap (clip) on type.
• Foot pressure adjustment: No.
• Face plate thread cutter: Yes.
• Zigzag width adjustment: Yes.
• Maximum zigzag width: 5 mm.
• Stitch length adjustment: No.
• Maximum stitch length: 4 mm.
• Bobbin winder: Push/pull type.
• Hook type: Vertical oscillating hook.
• Spool pin: Two retractable type (Vertical).
• Thread take up lever | 272 |
musings of the big red hen: Tori Amos LIVE IN CAPE TOWN!
It is still sinking in that last night I sat, mere meters away from Tori Amos, and watched as she played<|fim_middle|> closed with Carry, the only song she played that was actually from Night of Hunters. For the encore she played Personal Jesus, Leather, Precious things and Tear in your hand. | the most beautiful and transforming music. I don't think I'm exaggerating to say that it was akin to a religious experience.
I was first introduced to Tori 14 years ago, when I was 16, by my best friend. Since then Tori has pretty much been the sound track to our lives. We both have so much emotion, pain, joy, growth and metamorphosis wrapped up in her music. So, sitting there with her last night, watching Tori, was definitely nothing short of spiritual.
I cried, laughed and squealed with excitement. I was moved and transformed, yet again, by Tori. She is older now, and to me she has become like the wise mother, and I listen to her wisdom because her music is real, powerful and honest. The pain on her face when she sang Hey Jupiter, and the emotion in her voice when she sang Me & a Gun - I felt that at my core, I was shaken. And, although she looks different now, her voice is still as powerful and beautiful as it ever was. Rich and deep, it bows to her every command.
She had total and complete respect from the audience, with absolute silence during every song she played. The few times I could bear to tear my eyes from her, everywhere I looked I saw people holding on to each other watching her, the atmosphere was so intimate, it felt like it was just you and her.
She played a staggering 17(!) songs, with no back-up or accompaniment, just Tori and her piano's - perfect. I don't know how she found the strength, but I think she knew we were like the starving and she was manna from heaven, feeding us as much as possible of her very best. She opened with Little Earthquakes, then Icicle, Silent all these years, Consitina, Hey Jupiter, Dragon, Sorta fairytale (very special to me), Bells for her, Mother, Pancake (I felt like I was hearing this for the very first time, incredible) , Me & a gun, I can't see New York and finally | 439 |
CELEBRATION DATES
NOGALES JAZZ CELEBRATION
Charles Mingus Bio
Better Get It In Your Soul
Charles Mingus was one of the most important figures in twentieth century American music. He was a virtuoso bass player, accomplished pianist, bandleader, author, poet, civil rights activist, and a prolific composer. His number of jazz compositions is second only to Duke Ellington.
He was born April 22, 1922 on the US Army base of Camp Little in Nogales, Arizona which contained one of the Buffalo Soldier regiments from the 10th Cavalry. After 18 months, his father was transferred along with the family to Los Angeles in an area that is now known as Watts. His earliest musical influences were from the church choir and group singing — and from hearing Duke Ellington over the radio when he was about 8 years old.
He first studied trombone, then cello, and then bass after his good friend Buddy Collette convinced him to switch because Buddy needed a bass in his band. He was also an accomplished pianist who, it is said, could have made a career on that instrument. In the 40's, Mingus played with Louis Armstrong, Kid Ory, and Lionel Hampton. Eventually he settled in New York where he played and recorded with the leading musicians of the 1950's — Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Bud Powell, Art Tatum, and Duke<|fim_middle|> of his death, 56 whales beached themselves in Mexico and had to be burned.
Following his death, the National Endowment for the Arts provided grants for a Mingus Foundation which was to catalogue all of Mingus' works. In the process, Mingus' two hour masterwork titled "Epitaph" was discovered. With help from the Ford Foundation, it was premiered by a 30 piece jazz orchestra conducted by Gunther Schuller and produced by Sue Mingus at Lincoln Center's Alice Tully Hall in 1989. The Library of Congress was presented with the Charles Mingus Collection in 1993. In September 1995, the US Postal Service issued a Mingus first-class stamp.
Both New York City and Washington, D.C. honored Mingus posthumously with a "Charles Mingus Day".
In April 1993, the Tucson Jazz Society under Executive Director Yvonne Ervin and the Nogales/Santa Cruz Chamber of Commerce produced "Jazz on the Border: The Mingus Project." This was a week-long event that featured the performance of the Mingus masterwork "Epitaph". This included the world premiere of a long lost movement of the work. The week also featured former Mingus band members giving clinics in the schools, adult education lectures, film presentations, and free outdoor concerts held in both Nogales, Arizona and Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. The former Mingus band members who participated were alumni, Buddy Collette and Jack Walrath, along with bassist, Ray Drummond. This project was funded by the National Endowment for the Arts and the Arizona Commission on the Arts with assistance from the Nogales business community and the Tucson arts community.
Some of his most performed pieces are: Better Git It in Your Soul, Jelly Roll, Moanin', Goodbye Pork Pie Hat, Tijuana Gift Shop, The Children's Hour of Dream, Haitian Fight Song, Gunslinging Bird, Self Portrait in Three Colors, Boogie Stop Shuffle, Fables of Faubus, Open Letter to Duke, and Los Mariachis.
In order to keep Mingus music available to musicians and audiences, Sue Mingus has formed three bands that carry on Mingus music today, domestically and internationally, including a regular weekly residency in New York City: the Mingus Big Band, Mingus Dynasty and Mingus Orchestra. In 2007, she founded an ongoing national Charles Mingus High School Competition. Mingus music charts and educational books are published through Hal Leonard. A non-profit organization, "Let My Children Hear Music: the Charles MIngus Institute," has made possible the performances of "Epitaph," Charles Mingus' 3-hour masterwork and other activities. These activities assure audiences that the music is very much alive and well today, not only the history but the continuing presence of his compositions, as Charles would have wished.
Charles Mingus, Paris 1964. Photo by Guy Le Querrec
Photo by Tom Copi, copyright Jazz Workshop, Inc.
Photo by Hans Kumpf, copyright Jazz Workshop, Inc.
THE MINGUS PROJECT PRESENTS
CENTENNIAL JAZZ CELEBRATION
© 2022 The Mingus Project, All Rights Reserved. | Ellington.
By the mid fifties, he had formed his own publishing and recording companies to protect the large body of his compositions. He founded the "Jazz Workshop" for young composers to have their works performed in concert and recorded. He recorded over 100 albums of his music and wrote over 300 scores. He toured extensively throughout Europe, Japan, Canada, South America, and the United States.
Mingus received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, The Smithsonian Institute, and two grants from the Guggenheim Foundation. He also received an honorary degree from Brandeis University and an award from Yale University.
The New Yorker wrote, "For sheer melodic and rhythmic and structural originality, his compositions may equal anything written in western music in the twentieth century." Steve Schlesinger of the Guggenheim Foundation commented that Mingus was one of the few artists who received two grants and added: "I look forward to the day when we can transcend labels like jazz and acknowledge Charles Mingus as the major American composer that he is."
In 1977, he was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's Disease) and confined to a wheelchair. He could no longer compose at the piano or write music but succeeded in composing by singing into a tape recorder. He died at age 56 in Cuernavaca, Mexico on January 5, 1979. His ashes were scattered in the Ganges River in India. On the day | 313 |
Context. Low-mass prestellar cores are rarely found to be fragmented into smaller condensations, but studying any substructure, where present, is essential for understanding the origin of multiple stellar systems.
Aims. We attempt to better understand the kinematics and dynamics of the subfragments inside the prestellar core SMM 6 in Orion B9. Another goal of the present study is to constrain the evolutionary stage of the condensations by investigating the levels of CO depletion and deuterium fractionation.
Methods. We used the APEX telescope to observe the molecular lines C17O(2−1), N2H+(3−2), and N2D+(3−2) towards the condensations. We used the line data in conjunction with our previous SABOCA 350-μm dust continuum map of the source.
Results. The condensations are characterised by subsonic internal non-thermal motions (σNT ≃ 0.5cs), and most of them appear to be gravitationally bound. The dispersion of the N2H+ velocity centroids among the condensations is very low (0.02 km s-1). The CO depletion factors we derive, fD = 0.8 ± 0.4−3.6 ± 1.5, do not suggest any significant CO freeze-out, but this may be due to the canonical CO abundance we adopt. The fractional abundances of N2H+ and N2D+ with respect to H2 are found to be ~0.9−2.3 × 10-9 and ~4.9−9.9 × 10-10, respectively. The deuterium fractionation of N2H+ lies in the range 0.30 ± 0.07−0.43 ± 0.09.
Conclusions. The detected substructure inside SMM 6 is most likely the result of cylindrical Jeans-type gravitational fragmentation. We estimate the timescale for this fragmentation to be ~1.8 × 105 yr. The condensations are unlikely to be able to interact with one another and coalesce before local gravitational collapse ensues. Moreover, significant mass growth of the condensations via competitive-like accretion from the parent core seems unfeasible. The high level of molecular deuteration in the condensations suggests that gas-phase CO should be strongly depleted. It also points towards an advanced stage of chemical evolution. The subfragments of SMM 6 might therefore be near the onset of gravitational collapse, but whether they can form<|fim_middle|>sala Space Observatory. | protostellar or substellar objects (brown dwarfs) depends on the local star formation efficiency and remains to be clarified.
This publication is based on data acquired with the Atacama Pathfinder EXperiment (APEX) under programmes 079.F-9313(A), 084.F-9312(A), and 090.F-9313(A). APEX is a collaboration between the Max-Planck-Institut für Radioastronomie, the European Southern Observatory, and the On | 112 |
By Martin Schlegel on Feb 9, 2019 at 7:30 a.m.
John Marshall, the team atop the Big Nine standings, jumped out to a 10-3 lead over top-ranked Red Wing. Wingers head coach Jesse Nelson called a timeout to regroup his team, and from then on the Wingers slowly chipped away at John Marshall's lead, eventually going ahead and holding<|fim_middle|>8 points and hit 4 of 9 shots from behind the arc. "We always say defense starts the offense."
Red Wing improved to 18-2 overall and 14-2 in the Big Nine. The Wingers next travel to Owatonna on Monday.
"Great team effort and great team win," Nelson said. "We want to keep things rolling as we move into next week where we have games on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday." | on to win 57-50 on Friday.
During the timeout, Nelson said he saw a much better effort defensively.
"At that point, I thought we needed something to change the momentum or slow things down," Nelson said. "After the timeout, we settled down. (John Marshall) came out on fire, and then they hit a bunch of shots. Then we were able to match them. When both teams settled down, I thought our defensive effort carried us and allowed us to chip away at their lead. Then, finally, build a lead."
The Winger defense held John Marshall in check from that point on, and Red Wing had a number of consecutive possessions with offense hitting 3-pointers.
Coming out of halftime with a 31-26 lead, John Marshall started on a 5-0 run. Again, the Wingers were forced to stop the bleeding with strong defense. Sydney Rahn, who finished with 10 points and seven rebounds, came off bench and scored the first seven points for the Wingers in the second half. Lindsay Reps then hit a 3-pointer with under 8 minutes to go in the game. The Wingers were off and running. It was the boost of energy from the defense, and remaining patient on offense, that Reps said propelled the team to the win.
"At the beginning of the game and at halftime, (Nelson) was saying if shots aren't falling and our offense isn't flowing just get after it on the defensive end," said Reps, who scored a game-high 1 | 319 |
The C# Player's Guide<|fim_middle|> you need to. | (2nd Edition) is the ultimate guide for people starting out with C#, whether you are new to programming, or an experienced vet.
This guide takes you from your journey's beginning, through the most challenging parts of programming in C#, and does so in a way that is casual, informative, and fun.
This version of the book is updated for C# 6.0, .NET 4.6, and Visual Studio 2015 Get off the ground quickly, with a gentle introduction to C#, Visual Studio, and a step-by-step walkthrough and explanation of how to make your first C# program. Learn the fundamentals of procedural programming, including variables, math operations, decision making, looping, methods, and an in-depth look at the C# type system.
Delve into object-oriented programming, from start to finish, including inheritance, polymorphism, interfaces, and generics. Explore some of the most useful advanced features of C#, and take on some of the most common tasks that a programmer will tackle.
Master the needed skills by taking on a large collection of Try It Out! challenges, to ensure that you've learned the things | 233 |
How would you like your own private island?
Sitting back, not being bothered by anyone on the second largest privately owned island within the Gulf Islands.
Sounds like a dream, right? Well, it can all be yours for a cool $75,000,000.
The 780-acre property boasts a lot of amazing features and is full of history as well.
It used to be an agricultural settlement, a company town with plenty of industrial plants, and now it is an exclusive retreat for the purchaser and all of the friends they ever had or wanted.
The island is comprised of sandstone, bedrock and is mostly<|fim_middle|>, private docks and even an airstrip!
Wow, what an incredible property! With this year's short Summer swiftly becoming a brisk Spring, escaping to this private island with its white sandy beaches would definitely be a treat. If you love luxury properties with outstanding scenery, you should definitely check out the Destination Offerings from Hammond International Properties. Our destination properties in Las Vegas, Arizona, Belize and Barbados are nothing short of incredible with state of the art home design, furnishings and amenities. | sand, with white sandy beaches, luscious grassy dunes, and more.
Really, it can't get better than this. Mountains in the background, your own 18-hole Jack Nicklaus Signature golf course and 6 beautifully designed cottages | 52 |
La Grange school district uses voluntary saliva tests to help identify possible COVID cases
The saliva test, which is not FDA approved, is quick and cost effective
LA GRANGE, Ill. (WLS) -- More than three months into the fall semester, the routine has become a familiar one for the students at La Grange District 102.
Once a week, twice after holiday weekends, students will be tested for COVID-19 on their way out of<|fim_middle|> coronavirus tests for $130-$140
School board member, Dr. Edward Campbell, who is also a virologist at Loyola, is the brainchild of the entire operation. He has transformed the currently unused science center at one of the district's other schools into the lab where tests are processed daily.
"Once we get the tubes with the saliva in them, it's about a four-hour process before we have our first results on those samples," he said. "At this point, no teacher or student has gone to school the next morning without us knowing the results of the saliva they provided [the day before], which is a key part of the approach."
The testing is entirely voluntary, with about 81% of the student body and staff participating.
So far it helped contain a post-Halloween outbreak in three 5th grade classrooms. Last week, 11 tests out of more than 3,000 returned what they call "possible clinical significance."
"What we're catching are asymptomatic children and that's really what this test is looking at," Schumacher said. "We are not telling people if they have COVID or not. We tell them there is possible clinical significance, [and] you should then go to your physician to go get a diagnostic test."
The testing protocol is catching on. Two nearby districts are paying to process their own tests at District 102's lab. While New Trier, Glenbrook and a handful of others have initiated their own saliva testing regime.
The video featured is from a previous report.
health & fitnessla grangecoronavirus testingcoronaviruscoronavirus chicagocoronavirus illinoiscovid 19 | class.
The process is quick, as they spit into small bar-coded vials, then hand over to the school nurse.
RELATED: Coronavirus Illinois: U of I creates new saliva-based COVID-19 test as IL sees 2,295 new cases, 25 deaths
Monday, the 7th and 8th graders at Park Junior High took their turn doing the test.
"I like it a lot because I think it helps us stay in school, which benefits all of us," said 8th-grade student, Shane Harris.
"It's helped our staff and our community feel more comfortable being in school," added La Grange District 102 Superintendent Kyle Schumacher.
The saliva test, which is not FDA approved, is quick and cost-effective.
RELATED: Costco offering at-home | 165 |
In 1986, Tom Hanks starred in a movie called "The Money Pit." It was all about a couple's adventures in remodeling what has to be the worst house ever. Even though it was a comedy, if you've ever been part of a big remodel, some of the situations the co-stars find themselves in (re: the remodel, not the rest of the story, which is clearly irrelevant) are way too familiar. Too little money, problems becoming bigger than initially assumed and chaos, chaos, chaos. But you aren't going to jump into a money pit worthy remodeling project. Oh no. Not when there are so many awesome ways to avoid it.
If there's any hard and fast rule of remodeling, it's that it's always more expensive than you think it's going to be. Even professionals tend to build some padding in to accommodate the unknown. The older the house and wider the scope, the bigger the padding. Although building regulations have been around since the early twentieth century, they were inconsistent across the country and poorly enforced. It wasn't until 1997 that the International Building Code was first published, finally creating a building code that was uniform across participating countries. That's a little background about why so many older houses are full of surprises you get to uncover when you start to remodel them. It really helps to go into a remodel with a savings mindset if you're going to stay under budget.
Remodeling can be a huge process, but if you've got the intestinal fortitude for it, it can be an incredible experience to be involved with. No<|fim_middle|>.
Can I Save Money Without Doing it Myself?
If you're a little less handy or just far too busy to contemplate doing your own home remodel, it's smart to call in a home remodeler. These professionals can advise you in ways to save money with your remodel, based on your end goals and what you're already working with. Just try to be as flexible as possible, that's the easiest way to save money with a professional remodel, really. When you're ready to get a quote on that remodel, turn to your HomeKeepr community. There are plenty of well-qualified, recommended home pros to choose between. Your Realtor thinks they're pretty awesome, so you don't have to worry what kind of results you'll get. It'll be great! | matter if you hire most of the work or just hire the work that requires a permit, you may be able to save more on your job by trying these tips!
1. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle to Save More. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take that trim out carefully, you can reuse that stuff! Although more narrow types of trim like quarter round can be pretty fragile, wider crown molding or tall base moldings are great candidates for recycling, for example. Cabinets, tiles, sinks, tubs, light fixtures and most materials, really, can be recycled in some way.
2. Paint Can Give Materials a Face Lift. Hate that wooden trim? Is the wash on your kitchen cabinets unbearable? How about that wood paneling? You don't have to rip them out, all you need to do is sand them lightly, apply an appropriate primer and carefully paint them. Suddenly you've got a whole new look!
3. Replace, Don't Relocate. When you're remodeling rooms like kitchens and bathrooms, it's tempting to move toilets, sinks and dishwashers — but don't! Instead, work around their existing locations, since moving your plumbing (as well as electrical) can be very expensive and may require that you bring your house up to current code, adding even more cost to the remodel.
4. Check Out Sales, Coupons and Scratch and Dent. When it comes to appliances, especially, scratch and dent sales are one of the best places to find deep discounts. Big home improvement stores tend to get a lot of returns and typically there's nothing else really wrong with the appliance. There may be a small scratch on the side or top, but if it's not too obvious or it's the sort of injury you're likely to inflict on your appliance moving it into your house, there's no reason to spend an extra $500 on that fridge.
Sales and coupons come around on a regular basis. Wait for them. Be patient. Collect the stuff you need for your remodel ahead of time, that way you'll be ready and have saved a bundle on all those big ticket items!
5. Discount Material Stores Can Yield Fruit. Discount material stores often get bulk shipments of odds and ends that larger retailers couldn't move in a reasonable amount of time. Sometimes this means that they've got big stacks of avocado green tile, sometimes it means they have just enough high grade laminate flooring for your living room. Make sure you know how much material you need before you go into a discount material store, usually it's a one shot situation. Once they've sold out of the material, it's just gone.
6. Look for Ads Selling Used Materials. Remodelers and homeowners often put bigger ticket items up for sale when they're being replaced, especially if they seem to have a reasonable amount of life left in them. Windows, pavers and excess materials from projects are popular things you'll see in online and offline ads. You'll need to make sure the used materials you buy are right for your remodel, but otherwise, this is a great way to save.
7. Use Your Material More Efficiently. It might seem sort of obvious, but the more efficiently you use your materials, the less you'll need and the more you'll save. This means planning all your cuts ahead of time, being mindful of each piece and where it goes (like some giant crazy jigsaw puzzle!) and aiming for zero waste. You can usually return excess building materials, especially when they come from a home improvement store | 713 |
MotoHeroz [Video]
Chibi-Robo!
Elementum is an upcoming puzzle game being released by indie developer One Thing Studios. I played the demo recently and really enjoyed its mechanics and can see it being a decent hit for the developers. The concept is simple but there's really a ton of room for potential. I'm looking forward to its full release soon and hope the full game is as good as the demo.
By the way, the demo works perfectly in Wine on Linux, so hopefully there aren't any incompatibilities introduced with the full game.
If I had to describe Elementum, I would call it a mix of Peggle, Bejeweled, and air<|fim_middle|> but it is really very simple, check out the screenshot. | hockey. You're basically presented with a bunch of balls (or particles) you need to destroy. To remove them from the board, you need to shoot a ball from the outer edge into the mix and group at least three of the same color together. If the shot ball comes in contact with another ball, they switch places: the shot ball is now at rest and the stationary ball is ricocheted off. With a normal shot, one ball goes in and one ball goes out. The ball heading out must now be caught though by the device that shoots balls in. It may sound a bit confusing | 121 |
Everything about Colorado Family Orthodontics is great. The staff, the doctor, the results. I'm so pleased with how my smile is, and it's all thanks to Dr. Hamersky for his time, diligence, and effort into making sure I left with an amazing smile. Even after so many tweaks and a refinement with Invisalign, and improvement, but not perfection, Dr. Hamersky found options that made it possible for me to actually like my smile FINALLY. I don't think I would have ever expected so much from an orthodontics office, but they do it all and then some. If I could put braces on again just to be able to go in and see the staff often, I would. They're so accommodating. I'm glad I found them just in the knick of time, otherwise I would have paid a lot more and probably wouldn't have gotten nearly as much out of it. Thank you to the<|fim_middle|>11-year-old there next for braces as well.
My family absolutely loves Michelle and Summer and the gentle staff here. Our 9 year old was nervous about getting braces, but after speaking with Dr. Hamersky about possibilities and options we knew it was time to take the next steps and get started. Now we look forward to seeing the staff and our little guys teeth are well on their way to being straighter. | whole staff. You guys are seriously the best.
Great facility with awesome staff. Nothing but good experiences and we are taking our | 26 |
Canon launches<|fim_middle|> pre-existing tags as well as EXIF data and other information to increase the accuracy of results.
Project 1709 is accepting invite requests from today — while versions are provided in both English and German, the only option in the "country" section of the registration form is "United Kingdom." As well as Facebook Connect, the site allows users to sign in using Google, Yahoo, and Microsoft accounts, perhaps an indicator of future integration with Picasa, Flickr, or the SkyDrive cloud storage service. According to Canon, Facebook will be supplemented by other third-party services as the beta test progresses, with a full public launch scheduled for 2013. | Project 1709 social image management service in UK beta
Canon has launched the beta version of a new image management platform, aiming to provide a central location for viewing photographs from a wide range of services and networks.
By louisgoddard Sep 17, 2012, 12:33pm EDT
Via Engadget | Source Project 1709 and Canon (PR)
Share All sharing options for: Canon launches Project 1709 social image management service in UK beta
Canon Project 1709
Canon has launched the beta version of a new image management platform, aiming to provide a central location for viewing photographs from a wide range of services and networks. Dubbed "Project 1709" — apparently only a working title — the site features heavy integration with Facebook, allowing users to view comments and likes on photos pulled from the service. It also includes proprietary search functionality, which uses | 195 |
Zinchenko: Ukraine must stop 'amazing' Sterling
Oleksandr Zinchenko says Ukraine must find a way to stop the "amazing" Raheem Sterling but they should not fear facing England in a Euro 2020 quarter-final on Saturday.
Ukraine beat Sweden 2-1 after extra time at Hampden Park on Tuesday courtesy of a last-gasp winner from Artem Dovbyk.
Andriy Shevchenko's side travel to Rome to face the Three Lions at the Stadio Olimpico, with Gareth Southgate's side having beaten Germany 2-0 at Wembley.
Sterling opened the scoring for England with his third goal of the tournament before Harry Kane sealed the victory.
Zinchenko, who was on target in the win over Sweden, knows Ukraine will have to keep a close eye on his Manchester City team-mate in the Eternal City.
"Raheem Sterling is one of the best wingers in the world. Right now he is in amazing form," said the full-back.
"He is great, he makes the difference. We obviously need to pay attention to him and we will need to try to somehow stop him because he's on a roll now.
"Who is the strongest opponent that I have ever played? I have said several times that it's the footballers from Manchester City, those that I see every day at training."
England are the only team in the tournament who have not conceded a goal but Zinchenko says Ukraine should be motivated by the challenge of breaching their resolute defence.
"It is really difficult to score against England, they are really well organised," said Zinchenko.
"They have a really good set of footballers and the substitute bench probably costs [the same] as three Ukrainian teams.
"This shouldn't be really scary for us, this should motivate us. We need to give ourselves the highest aims, the highest goals, and I am sure that the coaching team will get the strategy for us.
"I sense myself that everything is possible in this life and we will do everything we can for it. I've watched pretty much all the games that England have played, except today because we were getting ready<|fim_middle|> World Cup qualification section ahead of a triple-header of fixtures in September.
Spain pick Pedri and blunder goalkeeper Simon for Tokyo Olympics
Pedri and Unai Simon were among a group of six Spain stars at Euro 2020 who received an Olympic Games call-up on Tuesday.
Spain Under-21 head coach Luis de la Fuente, who will take charge of the Olympic team in Tokyo, announced a 22-man list that must be trimmed to 18 for the tournament.
Teenage Barcelona midfielder Pedri has been one of the standout figures in Luis Enrique's Spain team at the European Championship, while Athletic Bilbao goalkeeper Simon got away with a huge mistake in the last-16 game against Croatia, when he conceded an own goal before Spain roared back to earn a 5-3 win.
He carelessly failed to deal with Pedri's back pass and the ball rolled into the net.
They were joined on De la Fuente's squad list by senior Spain colleagues Eric Garcia, Pau Torres, Dani Olmo and Mikel Oyarzabal.
As expected, there was no place for veteran Sergio Ramos, who wanted to represent Spain at both Euro 2020 and the Olympics this year but was called up for neither tournament.
Ramos, who is leaving Real Madrid after 16 years, endured an injury-plagued 2020-21 season.
Spain, who were gold medallists in men's football at the 1992 Barcelona Olympics, also included Real Madrid duo Dani Ceballos and Marco Asensio, Valencia's Carlos Soler, Sevilla's Bryan Gil and Mikel Merino of Real Sociedad in a strong line-up.
Monday's victory over Croatia at Euro 2020 has carried Spain through to a quarter-final against Switzerland, to be played in St Petersburg on Friday.
Should Spain go all the way to the final, they will contest the showpiece at Wembley on July 11.
The Olympic football competition begins before the Games is officially declared open, with Spain due to play Egypt at the Sapporo Dome in their opening Group C game on July 22, a day ahead of the opening ceremony.
De la Fuente said he had no doubts about selecting Simon, despite his error at the Euros.
"I know Unai Simon. I know of his strength and integrity," De la Fuente said. "Yesterday he had an exceptional reaction after a difficult moment."
Provisional Spain squad for Tokyo Olympics: Alvaro Fernandez (Huesca), Unai Simon (Athletic Bilbao)), Alex Domínguez (Las Palmas); Mingueza (Barcelona), Jesus Vallejo (Granada), Eric García (Barcelona), Pau Torres (Villarreal), Oscar Gil (Espanyol), Juan Miranda (Real Betis); Marc Cucurella (Getafe), Jon Moncayola (Osasuna), Martin Zubimendi (Real Sociedad), Dani Ceballos (Real Madrid), Mikel Merino (Real Sociedad), Carlos Soler (Valencia), Pedri (Barcelona); Bryan Gil (Sevilla), Marco Asensio (Real Madrid), Dani Olmo (RB Leipzig), Mikel Oyarzabal (Real Sociedad, Rafa Mir (Wolves), Javi Puado (Espanyol). | for our game.
"The first thing that I noticed is I know quite a lot of those players personally because I see them in the Premier League."
Muller expresses pain of Wembley miss
Thomas Muller has expressed the pain he is suffering after missing a golden opportunity in Germany's 2-0 Euro 2020 defeat to England.
Muller fired wide with only Jordan Pickford to beat when Joachim Low's side were 1-0 down with nine minutes to go in the round of 16 tie at Wembley on Tuesday.
The Bayern Munich forward had his head in his hands after that costly miss with time running out for Germany to stay in the tournament.
Harry Kane doubled England's lead with a header five minutes later and Muller cut a deflated figure when he was substituted in stoppage time.
Muller failed to score in the tournament after being recalled from the international wilderness by Low, managing only one shot on target in four games and missing his only big chance.
The 31-year-old opened up on his miss in a social media post.
"There it was, that one moment that you will remember in the end, that brings you sleep at night. For whom you work, train and live as a footballer," he posted on Instagram.
"That moment when you have it in your own hands to bring your team back into a close knockout game and to send an entire football nation into ecstasy. To get this opportunity and then to leave it unused, it really hurts me.
"It hurts for the entire DFB team. My team-mates and our coach, who all gave me the confidence to be there right then.
"But above all, it hurts because of all the Germany fans out there who stood by us and supported us during this European Championship despite difficult omens. Thank you for your support."
Shevchenko hails Ukraine 'heroes' as focus turns to England at Euro 2020
Andriy Shevchenko hailed his heroic Ukraine players following their dramatic 2-1 extra-time win over Sweden as he prepares to turn his focus to a Euro 2020 quarter-final showdown against England.
Ukraine progressed to the European Championship last eight for the first time thanks to Artem Dovbyk's last-gasp winner in extra time after Oleksandr Zinchenko had seen his opener cancelled out by Emil Forsberg on Tuesday.
Shevchenko's Ukraine will face England, who beat Germany 2-0 at Wembley earlier in the day, in Rome on Saturday after Dovbyk headed home at the end of 120 minutes.
Ukraine's only previous appearance in the knockout stages of a major competition came at the 2006 World Cup when eliminating Switzerland before losing to Italy in the last eight.
"I thank my team for all their efforts, for the heroism they have shown," head coach Shevchenko told a post-match media conference.
"Both teams played very well. It was an interesting match. Neither side wanted to lose so we got this drama at the end.
"With this performance and commitment, our team has deserved the love of the whole country."
Shevchenko's side are still to keep a clean sheet at a European Championship, conceding at least once in each of their 10 games, but he felt his side's tactics were spot on against Sweden.
He added: "We knew how our team should play from the first minutes. We knew who could strengthen us [during the game]. The plan we had developed has worked well.
"We decided to protect the wide areas more. We asked our midfielders to work harder and changed Andriy Yarmolenko's position. We tried to control the game but it wasn't that way from time to time. But the team has fully fulfilled our plan."
Ukraine defender Zinchenko felt the victory answered some of the negativity which had come their way after an underwhelming group stage, which saw them only beat North Macedonia.
"It was hard for me to concentrate on this game because we had so much criticism for our three group games," he said.
"I felt I could give the team more. I'm very proud that we showed our country and the whole of Europe that we can achieve our goals.
"It's a historical achievement. My advice to everyone – let's celebrate, we only live once and we may never repeat these moments again."
Sweden counterpart Janne Andersson felt his team deserved credit despite exiting the tournament.
Marcus Danielson was sent off in extra time and Ukraine made the extra man count when Zinchenko's cross was headed in from close range by substitute Dovbyk at Hampden Park.
"We'll have to fly home and go our separate ways. Suddenly it all ends, this great thing we've been building together," he said.
"We've come close to achieving something really good. We leave this with flying colours, as Sweden hadn't passed a group stage since 2004."
Euro 2020 data dive: England break hoodoo as Ukraine leave it late
After Monday saw a shock exit for world champions France and 14 goals across two games, Tuesday's last-16 ties at Euro 2020 had plenty to live up to.
But, while there was not quite as much goalmouth action this time around, there were plenty of intriguing talking points as two more sides booked their place in the quarter-finals.
First up, England claimed their first ever knockout-stage victory inside 90 minutes at a European Championship, vanquishing old rivals Germany at Wembley.
And then Ukraine needed the second-latest goal in the tournament's history to edge out Sweden in a tense battle for a last-eight berth.
Here, Stats Perform looks at the key Opta stats from another thrilling day of Euros action.
England 2-0 Germany: Three Lions break tournament hoodoo
England came into their last-16 tie knowing they would need to beat Germany in a competitive game at Wembley for the first time since the 1966 World Cup final to seal their place in the next round.
That this dismal three-match run against their rivals was finally ended owes much to Raheem Sterling, who bagged the opener to extend what has been a hugely successful tournament thus far.
The Manchester City forward has now scored 15 goals in his last 20 appearances in all competitions for England having gone 27 games without finding the net prior to this run.
His latest strike also meant he became only the second player to score each of the Three Lions' first three goals of an edition of a major tournament after Gary Lineker did so at the 1986 World Cup.
England are now 15 games unbeaten at Wembley in major tournaments and will hope to earn the chance to extend that run in the semi-finals and final this summer by getting past Ukraine in the quarters in Rome this weekend.
As for Germany, they saw the Joachim Low era end with a fifth winless game from their last six at the European Championships (D2 L3).
Ukraine 2-1 Sweden (aet): Shevchenko's men leave it late
Ukraine looked like they might cruise into the quarters when a dominant start was capped by Oleksandr Zinchenko becoming the fifth different City player to net at this year's Euros (a figure only matched by Atalanta).
But they perhaps did not account for Emil Forsberg grabbing his customary goal to become the first Sweden player to score in three consecutive major tournament appearances since Kennet Andersson at the 1994 World Cup.
With neither side able to add to those strikes in regulation, extra time was required for a fourth occasion in this year's last 16 – the most ever in a single knockout round at any European Championship.
However, the match would not reach penalties, with Artem Dovbyk scoring the second-latest goal in European Championship history (120 minutes and 37 seconds) to win it.
Only Turkey's Semih Senturk has managed to score later in a Euros match, doing so after 121 minutes and one second against Croatia in 2008.
As a result, Ukraine secured their place in the quarter-finals of a major tournament for only the second time (the last coming in the 2006 World Cup), while Sweden made it three knockout-stage defeats from three at the Euros (also against Germany in 1992 and the Netherlands in 2004).
Ukraine bring two up top back to make Euros history against Sweden
If Tuesday's first knockout game at Euro 2020 was billed as a battle to secure a straightforward run to the final, the late kick-off was all about Ukraine and Sweden seizing an opportunity to prove the doubters wrong.
After overcoming their old rivals Germany at Wembley Stadium, England will be strongly favoured to reach the competition's showpiece by progressing through the kindest side of the draw.
Yet every other nation alongside them will also sense the possibility of making history at a tournament that has already seen its fair share of upsets.
It is Ukraine who will get the chance to shock the Three Lions in Rome on Saturday, having claimed a 2-1 win over Sweden with a goal in stoppage time of extra time.
And, though Andriy Shevchenko's side did not produce the most convincing of performances in winning, they showed enough to prove that they may yet keep a dream run going.
Two up top back in fashion
Strike pairings are often considered a relic of a bygone era but both Ukraine and Sweden started this game with two up top.
Swedish duo Alexander Isak and Emil Forsberg were arguably the more threatening throughout, with the latter in particular continuing his remarkable tournament.
The RB Leipzig midfielder took six shots - twice as many as any other player on the pitch managed - across the 120 minutes as he led the way. Those attempts returned one goal - Forsberg's fourth of the competition - but he would have been celebrating a victory had two fine efforts not cannoned back off the post in the second half.
As for Ukraine, they began with captain Andriy Yarmolenko alongside Roman Yaremchuk, and both showed why they might cause problems for opponents deeper into the competition.
The pair laid on a shot apiece for each other across their time on the pitch together, while Yarmolenko picked out a beauty of an assist for Oleksandr Zinchenko's opening goal.
That meant the West Ham man has now been directly involved in five goals for Ukraine at major tournaments (2 goals, 3 assists); the joint-most of any player for the country, along with his current manager Shevchenko (5).
As for Shevchenko the tactician, he was rewarded for sticking to his guns by keeping men in the Swedish box as Yarmolenko's replacement Artem Dovbyk headed home the winner.
England's defenders know they will have their hands full when they come up against Ukraine's forwards this weekend.
Lack of experience could hurt Ukraine
Prior to this outing, Ukraine had lost seven of their past eight European Championship games.
The only exception was the victory over minnows North Macedonia in their group that proved just enough to bring them to the knockout stages of this year's tournament.
Never before have the Ukrainians gone this deep at a Euros, nor have they ever done better than reaching the quarter-finals in World Cup history, doing so in 2006 when their manager Shevchenko was part of the squad a player.
That lack of experience and the extra minutes in the legs provided by extra time at Hampden Park will surely encourage England.
Gareth Southgate's side are aiming to follow up a World Cup semi-final in 2018 with another deep run at a major competition - know-how could be crucial.
Ukraine are not the only team still left standing who had to work overtime to progress, either. Their clash with Sweden was the fourth Euro 2020 last-16 tie to finish level at the end of 90 minutes (also Italy v Austria, Croatia v Spain and France v Switzerland), the most ever in a single knockout round.
Sweden 1-2 Ukraine (aet): Dovbyk seals quarter-final spot with last-gasp winner
Artem Dovbyk netted a last-gasp winner as Ukraine booked their place in the quarter-finals of Euro 2020 with a thrilling 2-1 extra-time victory over Sweden at Hampden Park.
Ukraine broke the deadlock when a passing move just before the half hour found Oleksandr Zinchenko at the back post and his rasping half-volley was too strong for Robin Olsen.
Sweden equalised on the stroke of half-time through Emil Forsberg's deflected effort from distance and the striker twice hit the woodwork after the break.
Marcus Danielson was sent off in extra time and Ukraine made the extra man count when Zinchenko's cross was headed in from close range by substitute Dovbyk to set up a last-eight tie with England.
Sweden began with the greater intensity but it was Ukraine who carved out the first meaningful effort on goal when Roman Yaremchuk's low shot was kept out by the diving Olsen.
Alexander Isak dragged an effort wide of the post for Sweden before a slick Ukraine interchange culminated in Andriy Yarmolenko's deft cross with the outside of his boot which Zinchenko crisply finished.
Sweden almost hit back instantly when Sebastian Larsson's opportunistic curling free-kick from long distance had Georgi Bushchan scrambling across goal.
The leveller soon followed, Forsberg showing quick feet to create a shooting opportunity from outside the box as his strike took a defection off Illia Zabarnyi and flew beyond Bushchan.
Both sides struck the woodwork early in an open start to the second half as Larsson and Forsberg grazed the post either side of Serhiy Sydorchuk's shot which rebounded off it.
Bushchan produced a superb diving save to keep out a Dejan Kulusevski curling shot which seemed destined for the top corner before Forsberg jinked inside and bent another effort against the crossbar.
Kulusevski had a chance for Sweden at the end of normal time when he controlled a long ball but his angled shot was kept out by a last-ditch block from Oleksandr Karavaev.
Sweden's Danielson was sent off in extra time following a VAR review for a dangerous high tackle on Artem Besedin which left the Ukraine player unable to play any further part.
Spot-kicks loomed but Dovbyk popped up with the winner, heading in Zinchenko's cross from close range in injury time at the end of 120 minutes.
Low rues Muller miss as glorious era closes with defeat to England
Joachim Low highlighted Thomas Muller's missed chance during the closing stages as a pivotal moment in the 2-0 Euro 2020 defeat to England that brought down the curtain on his 15 years in charge of Germany.
Second-half goals from Raheem Sterling and Harry Kane booked a place in the quarter-finals for Gareth Southgate's side at a raucous Wembley.
But, after Sterling's third goal of the tournament, the Manchester City forward played a wretched pass towards his own half that released Muller.
The experienced Bayern Munich star bore down on Jordan Pickford's area and looked certain to score, only to fire wide.
"We didn't take advantage of the two great opportunities that we had with Muller and [Timo] Werner," Low said.
"It was obvious no team wanted to take too many risks, especially in their defensive work. It was expected that not many opportunities would be created.
"But you need to take advantage and be clinical if you want to succeed. The English side scored on their first opportunity and we didn't, so it was difficult.
"We would have turned the match around with the chance of Muller, but then they got their second and it was not possible to turn the match around.
"The team threw in everything but we were not clinical enough, not effective enough. The team needs to mature as a team to be more successful."
Low's announcement before the tournament means that such next steps will occur without him and Tuesday's reverse at Wembley saw a glorious reign limped to a forgettable conclusion.
After taking over from Jurgen Klinsmann in 2006, Low led Germany to the final of Euro 2008, the semi-finals of the 2010 World Cup and Euro 2012 before World Cup glory in 2014.
A youthful Germany team lifted the 2017 Confederations Cup after another semi-final exit at Euro 2016 but they failed to get out of the group stage during their World Cup defence in Russia and Low was unable to regain momentum.
"At the moment I haven't taken any decision yet," he replied when asked about his next move.
"When I took my decision to stop after this tournament, I had different thoughts back then.
"We will see in the next days and weeks. After 15 years in this job, with all the responsibility that is involved, taking a break is necessary.
"There will be a time when you find new energy for something else. At the moment, I do not have any concrete plans."
If it goes wrong, you're dead - Southgate knew the stakes as Germany gamble pays off
Gareth Southgate acknowledged his job as England manager would have been on the line had they not pulled off a 2-0 Euro 2020 last-16 win against Germany.
Reports over the past week have suggested the Football Association (FA) are keen to keep Southgate on beyond the 2022 World Cup, but he has not courted popularity with England's wider fanbase after conservative team selections throughout Euro 2020.
Those same supporters were in raptures at Wembley on Tuesday, when Raheem Sterling's third goal of the tournament and much-needed header for captain Harry Kane gave the Three Lions a stirring triumph over their old rivals.
Southgate reverted to a 3-4-3 setup to match Germany's formation, with defensive midfielders Declan Rice and Kalvin Phillips stationed in front of the back three, while the likes of Phil Foden, Jadon Sancho and Marcus Rashford remained unused on the bench.
Jack Grealish did emerge after 69 minutes to provide a creative spark, having a hand in both goals, with the Aston Villa man's omission from the XI another example of Southgate failing to be persuaded by popular opinion.
Speaking to BBC Sport afterwards, he acknowledged such single-mindedness comes with a price.
"You know that if you change the shape, you pick certain personnel instead of others and if it goes wrong you're dead," he said.
"We had to go about it in a way we believe. We wanted aggressive pressure all over the field. We felt that to match them up was the right way of doing that and speed in behind would cause them a problem.
"Bukayo [Saka] and Raheem, right from the start really created that jeopardy in their backline.
"We know that they were going to have moments of possession because they've got really good footballers and experienced players. But the whole team defended incredibly – the goalkeeper, right the way through.
"It was a fabulous performance, I can't give enough credit to the players."
Pre-tournament scrutiny over Sterling's worth to the England cause have been buried by weight of goals, but three laboured and scoreless group-stage outings prompted questions that Southgate was glad to see Kane answer.
"They both have to prove people wrong all the time," he added.
"Raheem has been immense for us over a three or four year period. We've got that faith and trust in him and his performances have been electric right from the start.
"For Harry, a really important moment I think. When you're a centre-forward, it doesn't matter what else you're doing in the game, you need those goals."
England happy to prove critics wrong as Rice reveals 'togetherness' within squad
England's last-16 win over Germany at Euro 2020 proved their doubters wrong as Gareth Southgate's side seized the chance to create their own piece of history at Wembley, according to Declan Rice.
A cagey contest was finally cracked open in the 75th minute when Raheem Sterling scored his third goal of the tournament, making it 15 in his past 20 outings at international level.
Thomas Muller fluffed a glorious chance to equalise before Harry Kane doubled the lead, heading home Jack Grealish's cross to seal a place in the next round.
England lost on penalties to Germany in the semi-finals of the 1996 edition at the historic venue – albeit it has been rebuilt since then – but Rice was delighted to play his part in a famous triumph, one that was delivered after the squad received criticism for their displays in the group stage.
"It's incredible. A lot of people looked at the end of the group stage and they had written us off," Rice told BBC Sport.
"Complaints about the performances, not scoring enough goals. You read a load of things. But, as players, you put that to the back of your minds and want to prove people wrong.
"I think today, in front of a full house, everyone had that fire in their belly to go out there and, for one, knock Germany out of the tournament and, two, progress to the next round.
"It's history. In the press conferences this week all the players have been asked about the previous games with Germany. Today we created our own bit of history, we've made the most of the opportunity on the pitch."
England will play the winners of the clash between Sweden and Ukraine next in Rome, with success on Italian soil then leading to a semi-final appearance back at Wembley.
For Rice, the bond within the squad has built belief that something special can be achieved, particularly with the final also taking place in London.
"We don't want to get too ahead of ourselves. Saturday, we travel to Rome for a massive game and we want to win that and progress to the semi-finals," the West Ham midfielder said.
"All I can say today, is the players, the fans, the occasion, how we were up for in the changing room... I've not been part of a team with a togetherness like this.
"We are all in it with each other, we really believe we have the quality and, with the tournament pretty much being at Wembley, we can keep progressing."
Sterling, who revealed he briefly feared his opening goal was set to be ruled out for an offside decision, made clear how pivotal Rice and midfield partner Kalvin Phillips had been to the victory, the latter regaining possession 11 times - the most by an England player in a European Championship fixture since Tony Adams (13) in 1996.
"We knew the intensity we can play at and not a lot of teams can deal with it," Sterling told BBC Sport. "The two players in midfield, Declan and Kalvin, they ate up the grass and were animals in there.
"We take it game by game, recover and focus for the next one."
England have now kept clean sheets in their opening four matches at a major tournament for just the second time, the other occasion coming when they went on to lift the World Cup in 1966.
Pragmatism makes perfect for England in Southgate's summer of Sterling
Gareth Southgate was keen to dismiss any relevance whatsoever surrounding his moment of personal despair 25 years ago, the last time England and Germany met at Wembley in a major tournament.
But his team-sheet felt like a nod towards the kit he wore as a young, accomplished defender who erred in an-era defining moment of Euro 96 penalty shoot-out heartache.
The England XI he sent out on Tuesday was grey. Very grey. Potentially and hopefully granite like, but definitely dull.
There was no great surprise. A line-up of five defenders and two sitting midfielders had been widely floated before kick-off and the approach was of a type with England's group-stage efforts of two goals scored and none conceded in three matches.
The clarity of Southgate's game plans have been a strength of his reign and account for the goodwill towards him in the England squad. Players are rarely left scratching their heads by a manager who has their back.
But as Phil Foden, Mason Mount, Jack Grealish, Jadon Sancho, Marcus Rashford, Jude Bellingham and all their considerable creative gifts shuffled into position on the substitutes' bench, it was hard to escape the sense of Southgate missing a trick.
Wing-back to the future
Either side of a raucous 4-2 win over Portugal – one that persuaded an entirely sensible switch to England's wing-back system – Germany were fortunate to only lose 1-0 to France and scraped a chaotic 2-2 draw against Hungary to squeak through to the knockout rounds. They were unquestionably vulnerable.
Southgate could rightly contest that going gung-ho against elite opponents has rarely ended well during the nation's 55 years of hurt, but the start was ominous.
Slow possession from kick-off saw Raheem Sterling, one of three attack-minded players in the XI, come deep and pass to Harry Maguire. Hoof! Then another one from goalkeeper Jordan Pickford.
Defensive numbers would be a moot point if England just kept giving the ball away to technically accomplished midfielders such as Leon Goretzka, who an overrun Declan Rice hauled down for a desperate eighth-minute foul that saw him booked.
Arm-wrestling the rippling Goretzka would probably be an awful experience, but that was effectively how England engaged Germany during a first half they gradually and painstakingly shoved into their favour.
Sterling and Bukayo Saka buzzed effervescently, too often lacking support. Kalvin Phillips burnished his ever-growing reputation as he faced down Goretzka, Toni Kroos and the roving Kai Havertz, while Kyle Walker, John Stones and the excellent Maguire encouraged their team out of a defensive shell and up the field.
Pragmatism wins prizes
Southgate's template is one that necessitates half chances taken and key moments won. Jordan Pickford did his bit with a brilliant save in each half, but Harry Kane's heavy touch towards the end of the first half showed him grasping for form. Alan Shearer branded that lost opportunity "a sitter" in his role as pundit on BBC.
It is a method that won Portugal Euro 2016 and France the 2018 World Cup, with extreme pragmatism laying a foundation for attackers flecked with magic to do the rest. But Portugal and France are already out here and Kane looked a shadow of the himself, unfit to be Southgate's Ronaldo.
Drift was an inadequate description for an unremarkable second half, given everything from the football to the tension felt so heavy. Finally, Southgate turned to his bench for some of Grealish's sparkle 69 minutes in.
Sterling had started to turn towards blind alleys rather than open spaces and relished a willing accomplice as he drove in field. Kane recycled possession to Grealish, who found Shaw. There was familiar Euro 2020 punctuation to a crisp move. England 1-0, Sterling.
Once again the toast of his boyhood neighbourhood after his third goal of the competition, the Manchester City forward erred horribly with pass towards his own goal in the 81st minute. Thomas Muller was through, but the inevitable didn't happen.
Then a moment of salvation for Kane and his country, stooping to head home, with Grealish and Shaw again involved. Job done, demons slayed.
Perhaps we linger too much on results and let them paper over performances, but results are the strongest currency of all in tournament football. To put it in context, this was England's first win in a major knockout match over a country with a world title to their name since overcoming West Germany in the 1966 World Cup final.
Whether it's coming home or not, Southgate and his players have breached unchartered territory.
An expectation to take the game to Sweden or Ukraine in a Rome quarter-final will inevitably bring more cries against caution. But those are tomorrow's problems in Southgate's summer of Sterling.
England 2-0 Germany: Kane off the mark as Sterling strikes again
England claimed their place in the quarter-finals of Euro 2020 as they beat rivals Germany 2-0 at Wembley Stadium.
Raheem Sterling grabbed his third goal of the tournament to put the Three Lions ahead from a well-worked move in the second half before Harry Kane opened his account with a late header.
Gareth Southgate's side will now face either Sweden or Ukraine in Rome as they look to match 2018's run to the World Cup semi-finals.
Germany seemed to take a partisan atmosphere at Wembley in their stride early on, making a strong start that was exemplified by Declan Rice receiving a booking for a cynical but entirely necessary challenge on a breaking Leon Goretzka.
However, the subsequent free-kick came to nothing, inviting England to improve on what they had offered up thus far and leading to something of an end-to-end half.
The hosts had two Harry Maguire headers and a Sterling strike from distance to show for their efforts, while Germany went close through Timo Werner and Robin Gosens.
But it was Kane who saw the best chance of the half, latching somewhat fortuitously onto a deflected clearance attempt but failing to get around Manuel Neuer before Mats Hummels intervened.
The half-time break seemed to benefit the Germans most, Joachim Low's side finding it far easier to prevent their opponents from playing out following the restart.
They were also creating chances, most notably in the form of a powerful Kai Havertz drive from the edge of the box that Jordan Pickford saved athletically.
But with neither side able to find the breakthrough by the 70-minute mark, both managers moved to change things with the introductions of Serge Gnabry and Jack Grealish.
And it was the latter who made the telling contribution, collecting the ball after a fine run from Sterling before teeing up Luke Shaw for a low cross that the Manchester City man side-footed home.
The goalscorer almost turned villain moments after his opener, inadvertently setting up Germany to release Thomas Muller in behind, but hit the turf in relief after the Bayern Munich man struck wide.
Grealish was on hand to make things safe soon after, swinging in a left-footed cross that Kane needed only to crouch to head home and send Wembley wild.
Muller back for Germany as Saka keeps England place
Thomas Muller is back in the Germany starting XI for the Euro 2020 last-16 clash against England at Wembley, with Bukayo Saka retaining his place for the hosts.
Muller only featured from the bench when Joachim Low's side scraped a 2-2 draw against Hungary to emerge as runners-up in Group F as he nursed a knee injury.
But the Bayern Munich forward has been passed fit to start alongside wing-back Robin Gosens and defender Antonio Rudiger, both of whom had been struggling with cold symptoms.
Manchester City midfielder Ilkay Gundogan is involved after suffering a cranial bruise, but only on the bench as Leon Goretzka partners Toni Kroos in central midfield.
Saka was a surprise starter in England's 1-0 win over the Czech Republic to top Group D and responded with a man-of-the-match display.
The Arsenal man forms a front three alongside captain Harry Kane and Raheem Sterling, who has scored England's only two goals at the tournament so far.
Three Lions boss Gareth Southgate has reverted to a back three of Kyle Walker, John Stones and Harry Maguire, with defensive midfield duo Declan Rice and Kalvin Phillips in front of them.
It means there will be an onus on recalled wing-back Kieran Trippier and Luke Shaw to provide thrust from the flanks.
De Boer quits Netherlands job after missing Euro 2020 target
Frank de Boer has stepped down from his role as Netherlands boss after overseeing a disappointing Euro 2020 campaign.
The 51-year-old took charge of his country in late September 2020 following Ronald Koeman's departure for Barcelona.
He became the first Oranje boss to fail to win any of his first four games but oversaw improvement in the form of eight victories and a draw from the 10 subsequent fixtures.
Three of those triumphs came as the Netherlands cruised through the group stages of this tournament, setting up a last-16 meeting with the Czech Republic.
But the Dutch fell short of their quarter-final target as they lost 2-0 in Budapest; a result that has prompted De Boer to leave his role prior to a planned meeting with KNVB chiefs.
He said: "In anticipation of the evaluation, I have decided not to continue as national coach. The objective has not been achieved, that is clear.
"When I was approached to become national coach in 2020, I thought it was an honour and a challenge, but I was also aware of the pressure that would come upon me from the moment I was appointed, that pressure is only increasing now, and that is not a healthy situation for me, nor for the squad in the run-up to such an important match for Dutch football on its way to World Cup qualification.
"I want to thank everyone, of course the fans and the players. My compliments also to the management who have created a real top sports climate here on campus."
The Netherlands sit a point behind group leaders Turkey in their World Cup qualification section ahead of a triple-header of fixtures in September.
BREAKING NEWS: De Boer quits Netherlands job after missing Euro 2020 target
The Netherlands sit in a point behind group leaders Turkey in their | 7,102 |
Q: $\begin{array}{ll}\max\limits_{{H: H\geq 0}} s'Hs.\end{array}$ Given real vector $s=[\sqrt s_1 \quad \sqrt s_2]'$, such that $s_1 \geq s_2$.
Variable is $H\in \mathbb{R}^{2\times 2}$. $H$ is positive semi-definite. I want to know what structure of $H$ will maximize $s'Hs$:
\begin{array}{ll}\max\limits_{{H: H\geq 0}} s'Hs.\end{array}
My attempt: Since I am interested on the structure of $H$, first I normalize it. Let this be normalization of $H$: \begin{equation}
\hat{H}=
\begin{bmatrix}
h_1 & h_2 \\
h_2 & h_3
\end{bmatrix}.
\end{equation}
Then rewrite the condition:
\begin{array}{ll}\max\limits_{{\hat{H}: h_1+h_3=1, \\h_2^2\leq h_1h_3}} s'\hat{H}s=\max\limits_{{H: h_1+h_3=1, \\h_2^2\leq h_1h_3}} h_1s_1+2h_2\sqrt{s_1s_2}+h_3s_2=\max\limits_{{h_1: 1>h_1><|fim_middle|>1}+\sqrt{(1-h_1)s_2})^2.\end{array}
Now I can say only that $h_2=\sqrt{h_1h_3}$ gives maximum, i.e. $\hat{H}$ is rank 1. Can we say more about the structure of $\hat{H}$?
| 0}} (\sqrt{h_1s_ | 10 |
Horse & Carriage hire in Whitehill has never been so easy to find. Simply enter your rental requirements and we will do the rest. Whether its a wedding, school prom or something personal, we can help you locate the ideal horse drawn transport in Hampshire.
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We offer Wedding Horse Drawn Carriage Hire in all local areas including Bordon, Lee On The Solent, Lymington, Basingstoke<|fim_middle|>ndhurst, Whitchurch, Yateley, Andover, Farnborough, Totton, Hythe, Aldershot, Winchester, Fordingbridge, Emsworth. Our visitors who search for Horse and Carriage Hire also tend to search for Indian Wedding Horse, Wedding Horse Hire, Prom Transport, Horse And Carriage Hire, School Prom, Horse Drawn Carriages, Asian Wedding Horse. | , Portchester, Hedge End, Tadley, Ly | 12 |
There are often two sides to a complete bathroom renovation –<|fim_middle|>, open shower has a sloping floor – another labour-intensive element – and a stainless steel strip drain.
The clean-lined vanity, circular basins, large-format wall and floor tiles, and freestanding tub all add to the feel required.
However, as in the saying 'fancy lights and mirrors', it's the bathroom's almost magical, multi-source indirect lighting that really lets the space come into its own.
There are LED strips running under the benchtop and toekick, and the raised wall mirrors are backlit too. Plus the entire vanity is underlit and there are seven tiny wall-washing lights set into the wall tiles. These lights plus the spot lights overhead all run on five individual circuits so that every lighting scenario is possible.
To add to the sparkle, chrome inserts feature between every second tile row. | the physical graft, such as reconciling the floor levels and services, and then the more visible aspects that create the ambience.
And designer David Ellwood had both of these to address in full measure when it came to creating this airy bathing space. With the existing, dated spa tub pulled out and steps removed from the shower area, the floors were substantially reworked.
"In terms of the new look, the owners wanted a contemporary, spa-like space with a freestanding bath, a floor-mounted filler, a completely open shower, and a feeling of increased space," says Ellwood.
In response, the designer introduced a mirror wall to one side on the bathroom and large-format mirrors above the vanity opposite. The new | 144 |
The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem
Zhendong Shao, Roger K.<|fim_middle|> and y in G. The L (2, 1)-labeling number λ (G) of G is the smallest number k such that G has an L (2, 1)-labeling with max {f (v) : v ∈ V (G)} = k. Griggs and Yeh conjecture that λ (G) ≤ Δ2for any simple graph with maximum degree Δ ≥ 2. In this work, we consider the total graph and derive its upper bound of λ (G). The total graph plays an important role in other graph coloring problems. Griggs and Yeh's conjecture is true for the total graph in some cases.
AB - An L (2, 1)-labeling of a graph G is a function f from the vertex set V (G) to the set of all nonnegative integers such that | f (x) - f (y) | ≥ 2 if d (x, y) = 1 and | f (x) - f (y) | ≥ 1 if d (x, y) = 2, where d (x, y) denotes the distance between x and y in G. The L (2, 1)-labeling number λ (G) of G is the smallest number k such that G has an L (2, 1)-labeling with max {f (v) : v ∈ V (G)} = k. Griggs and Yeh conjecture that λ (G) ≤ Δ2for any simple graph with maximum degree Δ ≥ 2. In this work, we consider the total graph and derive its upper bound of λ (G). The total graph plays an important role in other graph coloring problems. Griggs and Yeh's conjecture is true for the total graph in some cases.
KW - Channel assignment
KW - L (2, 1)-labeling
KW - Total graph
U2 - 10.1016/j.aml.2006.08.029
DO - 10.1016/j.aml.2006.08.029
JO - Applied Mathematics Letters
JF - Applied Mathematics Letters
Shao Z, Yeh RK, Zhang D. The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem. Applied Mathematics Letters. 2008 Jan 1;21(1):37-41. doi: 10.1016/j.aml.2006.08.029 | Yeh, Dapeng Zhang
Department of Computing
An L (2, 1)-labeling of a graph G is a function f from the vertex set V (G) to the set of all nonnegative integers such that | f (x) - f (y) | ≥ 2 if d (x, y) = 1 and | f (x) - f (y) | ≥ 1 if d (x, y) = 2, where d (x, y) denotes the distance between x and y in G. The L (2, 1)-labeling number λ (G) of G is the smallest number k such that G has an L (2, 1)-labeling with max {f (v) : v ∈ V (G)} = k. Griggs and Yeh conjecture that λ (G) ≤ Δ2for any simple graph with maximum degree Δ ≥ 2. In this work, we consider the total graph and derive its upper bound of λ (G). The total graph plays an important role in other graph coloring problems. Griggs and Yeh's conjecture is true for the total graph in some cases.
Applied Mathematics Letters
https://doi.org/10.1016/j.aml.2006.08.029
Channel assignment
L (2, 1)-labeling
Total graph
10.1016/j.aml.2006.08.029
Dive into the research topics of 'The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem'. Together they form a unique fingerprint.
Graph Mathematics 100%
Nonnegative Integer Mathematics 20%
Simple Graph Mathematics 20%
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Functions Mathematics 20%
Assignment Problem Computer Science 20%
Graph Coloring Computer Science 20%
Shao, Z., Yeh, R. K., & Zhang, D. (2008). The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem. Applied Mathematics Letters, 21(1), 37-41. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.aml.2006.08.029
Shao, Zhendong ; Yeh, Roger K. ; Zhang, Dapeng. / The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem. In: Applied Mathematics Letters. 2008 ; Vol. 21, No. 1. pp. 37-41.
@article{0e79a7e883a04e0780cd31b3a2fa29d8,
title = "The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem",
abstract = "An L (2, 1)-labeling of a graph G is a function f from the vertex set V (G) to the set of all nonnegative integers such that | f (x) - f (y) | ≥ 2 if d (x, y) = 1 and | f (x) - f (y) | ≥ 1 if d (x, y) = 2, where d (x, y) denotes the distance between x and y in G. The L (2, 1)-labeling number λ (G) of G is the smallest number k such that G has an L (2, 1)-labeling with max {f (v) : v ∈ V (G)} = k. Griggs and Yeh conjecture that λ (G) ≤ Δ2for any simple graph with maximum degree Δ ≥ 2. In this work, we consider the total graph and derive its upper bound of λ (G). The total graph plays an important role in other graph coloring problems. Griggs and Yeh's conjecture is true for the total graph in some cases.",
keywords = "Channel assignment, L (2, 1)-labeling, Total graph",
author = "Zhendong Shao and Yeh, {Roger K.} and Dapeng Zhang",
doi = "10.1016/j.aml.2006.08.029",
journal = "Applied Mathematics Letters",
Shao, Z, Yeh, RK & Zhang, D 2008, 'The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem', Applied Mathematics Letters, vol. 21, no. 1, pp. 37-41. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.aml.2006.08.029
The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem. / Shao, Zhendong; Yeh, Roger K.; Zhang, Dapeng.
In: Applied Mathematics Letters, Vol. 21, No. 1, 01.01.2008, p. 37-41.
T1 - The L (2, 1)-labeling on graphs and the frequency assignment problem
AU - Shao, Zhendong
AU - Yeh, Roger K.
AU - Zhang, Dapeng
N2 - An L (2, 1)-labeling of a graph G is a function f from the vertex set V (G) to the set of all nonnegative integers such that | f (x) - f (y) | ≥ 2 if d (x, y) = 1 and | f (x) - f (y) | ≥ 1 if d (x, y) = 2, where d (x, y) denotes the distance between x | 1,236 |
One of the most sought-after soundtracks in the beloved collection of music from the iconic Peanuts animated TV specials, It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is being made available for the first time ever on Friday, October 5 via Craft Recordings. Featuring music by Grammy-winning composer/performer Vince Guaraldi, the CD package includes a new introduction from the TV show's executive producer Lee Mendelson and insightful liner notes by Derrick Bang, Peanuts historian and author of Vince Guaraldi at the Piano.
It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (Music<|fim_middle|>-known for a three-decade run as Bing Crosby's music director and close friend. | from the Soundtrack features some of the most iconic tracks in pop culture, including the instantly recognizable "Linus and Lucy," as well as the languid, lyrical "Great Pumpkin Waltz." The music was recorded on October 4, 1966 at Desilu's Gower Street Studio in Hollywood, California by Guaraldi (piano) and his longtime friends and trio sidemen - bassist Monty Budwig and drummer Colin Bailey - joined by Emanuel Klein (trumpet), John Gray (guitar) and Ronald Lang (woodwinds). The entire scoring process was overseen by composer, arranger and conductor John Scott Trotter, well | 137 |
## DEDICATION
_For nieces and a nephew (in order of appearance)
Jackson
Evelyn
Melody
Kathryn
Maple_
_You still have time._
## CONTENTS
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part Three
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
## PART ONE
## ONE
ESTHER RAN ACROSS THE BROKEN ASPHALT.
Her destination loomed in front of her: an odd concrete structure, standing alone in the trash-filled lot. At a glance, it seemed unoccupied. As she neared it, Esther gave a final look in all directions; then she grabbed the low brick wall and vaulted over. Despite the searing heat of the early November morning, it was cool and dim inside. Esther blinked to get her bearings, then took off again.
The sound of her breathing, harsh and ragged, was the only noise; it seemed to echo in the vast space. She sensed this and cursed herself. Clamping her lips together, she tried to hold back the sound, to breathe so as to not to draw attention to herself. But it was impossible to do this without slowing down. She gave up and put on extra speed instead. She had been running a long time and as she gulped air, her lungs burned and a sharp pain gripped her side. But she was almost at the safe place and then she would have time to rest.
Esther was on the second floor and there were four more to go. She ran low, crouching down and sticking close to the center of the structure. It was a strange building, one that offered neither protection nor privacy. There were no walls; the sides were too exposed, open to the world outside, with the rooftops of Prin visible in the distance beneath a dirty yellow sky.
Esther was aware that she was wearing a red hoodie and jeans. With sharp eyes, somebody could spot her from half a mile off, even though she was a skinny fifteen-year-old with a real talent for not attracting attention, a girl who'd spent a lifetime learning how to slip in and out of shadows without being seen.
Right now, not being seen was all she cared about. After all, those were the rules of the game, the game they called Shelter.
Shelter was simple. You and your opponent started in one place. Then you both raced to the safe place and whoever got there first won.
Easy.
But the safe place was always three or four miles away from the starting point. You had to run as quickly as you could in the searing heat (for it was always hot in Prin, even in November). If you were detected and called out by your opponent, you lost. And lastly, in order to win, you had to navigate your way through the ruins of old buildings, cracked pavement, and a jagged landscape of twisted metal and shattered glass. A single misstep could break a bone or slice your skin. If you were especially unlucky, one false move could send you crashing down through a rotting surface into some forgotten basement, where chances were your cries for help would go undetected for hours, maybe even days. If anyone heard you at all.
But to Esther, that was part of the fun. Right now, she had been running for nearly two hours, but nothing mattered: not the pain, the exhaustion, or the suffocating heat.
She was about to win.
Esther rounded a corner of the place she knew well. She ignored the cars, each in its own space, separated neatly by faded yellow lines painted on the cracked cement. They were like ghosts, silent hulks so covered with gritty white dust you could hardly tell what color they had once been. They had long since been drained of their precious fuel and were now still and lifeless, just part of the landscape, like boulders or buildings or stunted trees.
Esther's sneakers skidded as she sprinted up the second and then the third concrete ramp. The ground underfoot was broken and uneven, but she didn't notice. She was too busy searching the landscape for any flicker of movement, her eyes darting from car to pillar to car. There was trash everywhere, which she skirted effortlessly: shards of glass, crushed beer cans, a sodden cardboard box, a shoe.
As she made it to the roof, the heat and glare of the sun hit her hard. Sweat was stinging her eyes and running down her neck. When she yanked down her hood and ran her hand across her head, her dark hair was wet, with some parts sticking up in spikes. Here, there was no breeze, nothing but yellow sky. Surrounded by concrete and dead grass that shimmered with heat, she could see for miles past Prin to the empty roads leading off to wherever they went.
Esther didn't turn to look. Exhilarated, all she knew was that she'd made it. She was the first.
For standing in the far corner of the roof was the safe place. It was a brown box, taller than Esther and wide enough to hold at least four of her. Although it had only been there a few days, it was already fading and starting to soften from the sun and rain; soon, it would be worthless. There was a simple picture and black arrows on the side, as well as meaningless words written in large, block letters.
THIS END UP. KENMORE. 24 CU. FT. REFRIGERATOR.
Esther hadn't taken the time to decipher the words. If her older sister, Sarah, knew this, she would pinch her lips with disapproval, the way she did at practically everything Esther said or did. Sarah was one of the few who could read, one of the last in Prin, and she was forever nagging others to learn how to do it too. When she was little, Esther had memorized the alphabet and could sound out simple words, but that was as far as she got.
All she had to do was touch it.
Jubilant, Esther approached the box, extending her hand. But at the last second, someone emerged from behind it.
Esther froze.
The creature was small, with dark, hairless arms and legs, and a bald skull. It appeared to be neither male nor female and wore a brief tunic that was little more than a sack, with a cloth pouch slung across. Its face and body were covered with a dense network of intricate designs, swirling patterns, dots and slashes, strange curls that snaked like vines across the skin in various shades of black, brown, and pink. On close examination, you could see the designs were not painted on but were a complex network of crude tattoos and hundreds, maybe thousands, of scars. Some of the marks were so tiny, they seemed like mere threads against the skin; others were vivid, pink gouges of raised flesh. It had bulging lavender eyes and a flattened nose, which crinkled as its mouth, with its tiny, sharp teeth, twisted upward.
Esther recoiled, with a gasp.
"No!" she screamed.
"Got here first," the variant said. "I win!"
Half laughing, half groaning, Esther tried to catch her breath. She bent over to relieve the pain in her side.
"Skar!" she exclaimed. "How did you got here before me?"
Skar shrugged, smiling. She was so pleased with herself, she couldn't resist dancing a little, bouncing up and down on thickly calloused feet.
Skar was the same age as Esther. Yet unlike her friend, she had been female for only five years, having selected her gender on her tenth birthday, the way all variants did. At the time, Esther was delighted when her friend chose to be a female because it was one more thing they had in common. Skar had a circle, the mark of being female, tattooed on her upper arm.
No one understood where the variants came from, why they were hermaphroditic, hairless, disfigured. Most in town seemed to believe that the variants were once animals, living off contaminated goods and drinking groundwater. The accumulated poisons had permanently affected them and their unfortunate offspring, creating a new race of freaks. Certainly Esther's older sister, Sarah, had mentioned this theory more than once, much to Esther's annoyance.
The variants had always lived far from town, shunning the ways of Prin and its people. They dressed oddly, not bothering to shield themselves from the dangerous rays of the sun. Rather than work, they eked out a meager living from hunting with feral dogs. Occasionally, they foraged for food and bottled water amid the wreckage of the outlying buildings and homes of Prin. The variants' way of existence was a harsh and dangerous one, where one's next meal or drink of water could result in sudden sickness, pain, and death. Their life expectancy was even shorter than that of the people in town.
In the best of times, the townspeople looked down on the variants as shiftless and dirty and called them the ugly word "mutant." Lately, after the rash of strange, isolated variant attacks, the feeling had grown from one of contempt to that of terror and even hatred. No one knew this better than Esther and Skar, who chose to spend their time together far away from the judgmental and fearful minds of Prin. Esther believed the variants weren't a separate species like damaged snakes or wild boars; she believed they were human somehow, yet spurned for their differences. But she had never dared mention this to anyone.
The life of the average townsperson was one of mindless labor rewarded by the occasional treat of something new: a piece of clothing that wasn't filthy, a wristwatch with a shattered face, a pair of sunglasses. Rather than stoop to such a level, the variants had created their own society high in the mountains, with its own rules, customs, and rituals. There they lived freely, without the need for labor or commerce. They existed without apologies, and with pride. And for that, Esther secretly loved them.
"That's three times in a row," Skar now said. "Do you want to try again?"
"Sure," said Esther. "Only let me catch my breath first. And this time, give me a head start or something."
Skar's smile broadened. "What fun is that?"
Laughing and chatting, the two headed back down into the relative coolness of the building. They argued over what should be the new starting point: the abandoned steel tracks several miles down the road, or the dried-up lake on the far side of town? But as they approached the ground level, Esther's face froze and she made an abrupt gesture at her friend, who stopped in midsentence.
Skar heard it, too: a faint thread of faraway voices.
In the distance, heading off the main road and turning into the asphalt lot, were three figures on bicycles. One was pulling a red wagon; from where she stood, Esther could even hear the faint clank of its metal handle. They had clearly seen Esther; had they seen Skar? The trio was headed to the parking garage, straight toward them.
Esther and the variant shared a quick glance, and Esther gave a nod. Without speaking, Skar crouched low and slipped away, disappearing behind a row of parked cars.
Esther waited a few moments. Then with fake casualness, she sauntered to the edge of the wall and looked down. She was trembling and her heart was pounding, but her actions revealed nothing.
Within seconds, the three were clustered below, gazing upward at her. From their expressions, Esther could tell they didn't notice Skar and she felt some of her tension ease.
Yet she had to make certain they didn't come up to where she was, where they might see her friend. No variant was safe since the attacks. She rested one hand in front of her on the low wall and gazed down at them.
It was impossible for Esther to tell who they were. Indoors and away from the burning rays of the endless summer, the three wouldn't resemble each other at all. Yet at that moment, they were nearly identical, dressed the same as everyone in Prin except Esther: swathed in filthy sheets, with towel headdresses hanging down their necks, scarves masking their lower mouths, and thick cotton gloves protecting their hands. The billowing folds were belted close to their legs, in order not to get caught in the spinning gears. All three wore dark sunglasses. In the wagon, Esther could see two empty plastic bottles, coiled rubber tubing, and a crowbar.
The three were on their way to a Harvesting.
There were three jobs in Prin—Harvesting, Gleaning, and Excavation—and they were assigned by a lottery held every two weeks in the center of town. Everyone over the age of five was required to attend and, once given a job, expected to work every day from sunrise to sundown. The rules had always been strict but they had become much tougher of late: Not to show up resulted in a Warning filed by the team Supervisor, which Esther had incurred at least four times in the past year.
One more and she risked Shunning. And Shunning from town meant certain death.
Two of the three jobs were grueling but mindless: the Excavation and the Gleaning. The few times she had deigned to show up for an assignment in recent months, in order to placate Sarah, Esther had opted for one of those two. But the Harvesting—a search through the outlying areas to find the most tradable commodity, gasoline—called for real concentration. It was by far the single most important job in town and one that had grown only more difficult and time consuming as the years went by.
When Esther had drawn the Harvesting as her assignment at the last lottery, she'd cursed her luck. Then she ignored the task and instead headed to the overgrown fields and vacant lots to play with Skar.
It had taken the rest of her team this long to find her, and their fatigue and frustration were obvious. She had to be careful not to provoke them: There was too much at stake, for both her and Skar.
The biggest figure called up to her. "Look who's here," it said. Although they were cloaked, Esther had no trouble recognizing who was speaking by their voices. This one was Eli. At fifteen, he was the oldest and was therefore Supervisor of today's expedition.
"Where you been?" shouted another, revealing herself to be a girl called Bekkah. Shorter and younger at eleven, she acted as second in command. "We been looking for you!"
"I showed up the first day, and you guys had already left," Esther said from her perch, trying to sound sincere. She knew that from a hiding place behind her, Skar was listening too.
"Right," said the smallest and youngest. This was Till, and his tone was sarcastic.
Esther knew this boy the least and, as a result, feared him the most. She turned beseechingly to Eli.
Her appeal was not lost on him. Eli was well aware that after two weeks, their work detail was almost over and had been unsuccessful. The two others in his team were on the edge, ready to vent their fury on any target. He had to keep them at bay.
"Let's go up there and get her," Till said.
Eli held up his hand. He exchanged a look with Esther.
In spite of himself, Eli smiled; he couldn't help it. For some reason, he had always been attracted to Esther, despite her utter irresponsibility and almost total lack of female affect. He couldn't explain why, even to himself. His eyes still holding hers, he gave a dismissive wave to the others. He tried to sound cold and unfeeling.
"Let's go," he said. "She ain't worth the trouble."
He remounted his bike, looping around to head back out to the main road. For a moment, the other two were angry and confused; then, resigned, they got on their bikes. Bekkah made the turn with difficulty because of the wagon. Only Till couldn't resist a parting shot.
"Looks like you got off this time!" he yelled back over his shoulder.
Eli stopped at the edge of the parking lot.
"Better get back to town," he called to Esther, meaningfully. "You ain't safe alone out here."
"I'm not afraid of wild dogs," she said.
"I don't mean dogs." He spat before he took the turn.
Once they were gone, Esther expelled a long breath. She was surprised to find that she was trembling and even a little sick. Why?
Was it because Eli had done her a favor, meaning she was now indebted to him? True, he had often seemed sympathetic to her in the past, and she had never minded. He had always been kinder than the others, and not as close-minded. Yet now that she had asked for his help, and he had given it, they were linked, somehow, in a way they hadn't been before . . . and Esther was not at all sure how she felt about that.
In Prin, Esther and Eli, not to mention Sarah, stuck out for being single. Nearly everyone got partnered when they reached fourteen. By seventeen, they were considered town elders, and by nineteen, they were dead. That was the longest anyone managed to escape the disease; it was everywhere there was water, carried in the rain, lakes, streams. Couples spent their short lives together at meaningless and backbreaking jobs, often toiling side by side, and all for just enough food and clean water to survive. Esther was already fifteen, a year past the age of partnering. Was this really all she had to look forward to?
When she was old enough to rebel, Esther began breaking curfew and spending more time with Skar. At first, people in town treated her with condescension, as an oddball. Now, they viewed her as a pariah, a freak. And Esther had been fine with that. Being an outsider made her feel strong, even invincible. But lately, she found she was often beset by a strange sadness.
She would always love Skar. But despite Esther's efforts to embrace their culture and learn their ways, the variants themselves still refused to accept her as one of their own. Her one trip to the variant camp had been a disaster: She was treated coldly, with suspicion and hostility, by the rest of Skar's tribe. Esther hoped that one day she would be welcomed as the ally she was; but after so many years, she had yet to even meet her best friend's brother.
The town of Prin wasn't home, either. She fit in nowhere.
Esther knew how she really felt.
She felt alone.
_Maybe there could be someone else to be_ truly _close to,_ she thought. Or maybe there could be something bigger to be a part of—what, she wasn't really sure. A little while ago, Esther would have laughed at the idea. But she wasn't laughing now.
"Are they gone?"
Hearing her friend's voice, Esther snapped to attention.
The variant girl now crept from behind a row of parked cars and stood by Esther with fists clenched, tense and ready to run.
Esther brushed aside her own concerns, to put her friend at ease.
"We're fine," she said, nudging Skar in the side. "Now let's see who makes it to the tracks first."
Eli and the others rode their bikes single file down the main road heading away from Prin. He led them past the hulking, plundered ruins of buildings on the edge of town, places that still had names, meaningless words they didn't know how to read: STAPLES, HOME DEPOT, THE ARBORS NURSING HOME, STOP & SHOP.
Eli pedaled slowly, so Bekkah could keep up. He was careful to steer around the broken glass, discarded bits of machinery, and chunks of dirty plastic that littered the pavement beneath their tires.
They avoided detritus left by the periodic rising and retreating of floodwaters: bleached-white shells and stones, the rotting remains of a rowboat. There were other things that must have been swept away by the dank waters: a rusted hunting rifle; a blond wig that had become a filthy, tangled mop; a safe deposit box with the top torn off and the dust of long-dead crabs inside.
Ahead, the road became a bridge, passing over a much larger avenue underneath.
Eli stopped as he considered where to go.
"We already checked over the bridge," commented Bekkah, as she pulled up alongside him.
"Yeah," said Eli. "But we didn't go down _there_."
He pointed, and Till swallowed hard.
"Are you sure," he muttered, "we have to?"
Eli shrugged. "We been out here two weeks and ain't got a drop. There's no place else to check. Come on—it'll be fine, and maybe we'll even be done today."
The others seemed reassured. Eli pretended to look at ease as they glided down what had once been the on-ramp to the northbound lane of the interstate.
At times, the deserted road was almost impassable with fallen trees, downed streetlights, dead power lines; but the three managed to find a way through. Both sides of the highway were overgrown with heavy, tangled undergrowth that in some areas spilled past the shoulder and onto the road itself, and in some places obscured the aluminum barriers once built to muffle the sounds of traffic.
"Nothing so far," Eli called over his shoulder. He was talking too loudly, he realized, from nervousness.
He was on edge in case they saw a body.
Although none of them talked about it, they all knew that people with the disease were Shunned, sent from town on this highway to die; that way, it was said, they wouldn't contaminate the others. No one knew exactly where they ended up. There were rumors in town of a Valley of the Dead, a mass grave filled with the remains of innumerable children, although such a place had never been seen. Some thought it was no more than a bedtime tale told to frighten the little ones.
Eli was not sure he believed the story, but he worried they would see or smell remains on the road or off to the side. _Which would be worse,_ he wondered: _if the body was fresh enough to be recognized or too rotted to identify?_ The smallest ones would be the worst, he decided, and skeletons of any size.
"Hold on! Back up!" Till yelled.
They slowed down. Sure enough, they could see something peeking out from a dense tangle of vines, brush, and litter, close to the highway wall, where no one would have searched.
"Yeah," Bekkah said. "Looks good."
It was a dark green car, compact yet roomy, with an incomprehensible word framed by a steel circle on the front grill: VOLVO. The three pedaled onto the curb, then got off and walked their bikes through the clotted grass of the shoulder to reach it. With difficulty, Till pulled the wagon as well.
Bekkah fished out a steak knife hanging from her belt on a nylon cord and sliced away the vines and branches that strangled the car. Working methodically, she cleared away a space on the left side of the vehicle, above the back tire.
Eli took the crowbar from the wagon and flipped open the small metal panel in the side of the car. Then, with a few yanks, he pried off the cap to the gas tank. Till handed him the tube, and Eli snaked it down into the tank, feeding it inch by inch.
In the hot sun, the others watched his expression. Moments later, Eli smiled as he felt the end of the line hit gas.
"A decent amount," he said, relieved.
"Good," Bekkah said. "He was mighty mad last time. Wouldn't hardly give us nothing."
"He's been like that for a while now," Eli said.
They were talking about the one they worked for, the one who lived on the outskirts of town. The boy called Levi.
Levi lived in a kingdom of sorts, in that he saw himself as a kind of king. Yet his home was more of a fortress, as the windowless building was massive, guarded, and impenetrable. It was nicknamed the Source because while no one in Prin had ever ventured inside, it was quite literally the center of life; the townspeople would soon die without it. It was powered by the only electricity any of them had ever seen, electricity generated by the countless bottles upon bottles of gasoline everyone in town spent so much of their lives searching for.
The gasoline was exchanged each month for food and water from Levi's endless supplies. This didn't include his tuna, soup, meat, jelly, cereal, tomato sauce, peanut butter, stew, pickles, or vegetables; they had long since rotted to blackened tar, exploding their containers. His dry grains and beans were edible, barely, but had to be pounded into flour and boiled for hours before they could be digested. Salt, sugar, spaghetti, honey, and hard candy were available, packaged and sealed in plastic bags, cloth sacks, and cardboard containers; there were also countless gallon jugs of water. Everything was brought outside by Levi's boys.
There were eighteen of these guards, hulking and hooded brutes armed with small, harmless-looking contraptions that made a terrible hissing sound and, upon contact with skin, could cause a teenager to drop to his knees in agony. (The word "Taser" was printed on the rubberized grips; a dozen had been found in a building on the outskirts of town, one with cobwebbed desks in the front room and barred cells in the back.) Levi's boys measured the gasoline and doled out the provisions, watching over the transactions with a hawk-like attention that had only grown worse since the supply of untapped cars in Prin began dwindling.
For Eli and his fellow Harvesters, the "Volvo" guaranteed that the exchange would continue for at least a few more weeks. And so by extension would their lives.
"Lucky we found this," Eli said. "Should last us a long while."
With that, he bent down and sucked the tube until he sensed the fuel was about a foot from his mouth. Then he yanked out the tube and stuck the end into the neck of an empty plastic bottle, which Till was holding steady for him. A second later, the air was filled with the pungent smell of gasoline as it gushed forth into the container.
Without looking, he addressed Till. "Good eye," he said.
Till smiled, abashed. "It was your idea to come down here."
Eli filled one bottle; then, taking care not to spill a drop, he transferred the tube to the next bottle.
Yet something wasn't right.
Eli looked up. Then he stood. As he did, the tube fell from the bottle neck, sloshing gasoline onto the ground.
"Hey!" Bekkah said. "Watch out!"
"Sorry." Eli bent to put the tube back into the bottle, which by now was almost full. "I just thought I heard—"
Now he froze in place. It was unmistakable: He could even see the fuel shaking a little inside the bottles.
Something was approaching, fast. Some of what Eli heard wasn't human, just the faraway thump of tire threads. But he could also detect faint whooping and whistling, a scary celebration.
Eli's eyes flickered around as he braced himself. Alone on the side of the highway, they were brutally, nakedly exposed. It was too late for them to do anything—to run away, to hide, to even scream for help.
"Aww, no—" Till murmured, under his breath. It was almost a prayer.
And at that moment, it began.
The air was split by noise, a blood-curdling shrieking that seemed to come from no one direction but from everywhere at once, pulsating and echoing. It was an uncanny noise that seemed neither human nor animal.
Bekkah stood still with her mouth half open, a hypnotized mouse in the sights of an owl, the now-forgotten plastic container at her feet overflowing. Gasoline splashed over her sneakers and filled the air with its fumes.
From nowhere, an object whistled at her through the air; it was a fist-size rock, ugly and jagged. There was a sharp cracking sound; it knocked Bekkah from her trance and she emitted a scream, high and thin and terrified. She reeled backward. Clutching her forehead with both hands, she knocked the rubber tubing from Eli's hands and sent a stream of gasoline flying in a clear arc through the air. Blood spurted from between her fingers and ran down into her eyes. It dripped onto and splattered her filthy white robes. Her knees buckled and she sank to the ground.
Eli was backing up, his eyes darting as he looked in vain for their assailants. His forgotten bike lay on its side only a few feet away. Several rocks flew at him, too, and he ducked them, one arm held up in front of his face, as too late, he remembered the single weapon they had thought to bring with them, an aluminum baseball bat tossed in the back of the wagon.
Behind him, Till was scrambling for the vehicle closest to him, Bekkah's bike, trying to detach it from the wagon, which he knew would slow him down.
" _C'mon, c'mon,_ " he whispered.
But as his useless fingers picked at the knotted ropes, a fresh barrage of rocks was unleashed on him from all directions. Panicked, he gave up and made a dash for the side of the road, crawling into the underbrush to the sounds of jeering and mocking laughter.
And with that, the mutants, shrieking, descended from all directions.
It was impossible for Eli to tell how many there were—ten? Twenty-five? They attacked in a swarm, and at that moment looked exactly alike—all slight of build, androgynous and covered with road dust, with the same bulging lavender eyes and ornate labyrinths of scars and tattoos covering their faces and bald heads. Each wore a meager tunic, with a canvas bag loaded with rocks slung across his or her body.
The bikes themselves were strange-looking and menacing: black and low to the ground, festooned with strips of leather, with weird metal pegs and handles attached to the frames and axles. The mutants rode two to a bike, one pedaling and the other standing behind, straddling the rear tire and balancing barefoot on the foot pegs while wielding their slings, metal clubs, and chains.
Eli had heard tales of these recent and confusing attacks by the mutants, of ambushes sprung from nowhere and for no reason. He had taken comfort in the fact that the mutants had chosen not to kill but saved the worst of their savagery for buildings and objects. Still, hearing of such things was far different from experiencing them firsthand. He was choked with panic.
Covering his face with his arms, Eli ran forward, bent over to make himself as small a target as possible. He was able to reach Bekkah's side unscathed. Grabbing her under the arms, Eli dragged his unconscious friend to the underbrush, near Till.
From there, Eli watched as the mutants dismounted from their bikes and turned their attention to the car. Soon glass was shattering, heavy chains smashing against metal, and bodies were jumping up and down on the roof. _Better the car than them,_ he thought. He turned to the side and, when he did, his heart skipped a beat.
The two plastic bottles, still brimming over with gasoline, were where he and the others had left them, miraculously untouched by the side of the road. To Eli's horror, one of the mutants backed into one as she whirled her chain overhead and knocked it over. Shocked, the boy watched as the precious contents glugged out, spreading across the pavement and spilling into the dust by the side of the road.
He was not the only one who noticed.
The biggest mutant, wiry and with a distinct network of swirling scars forming a rising sun across its face, had been standing to one side, arms crossed. Eli noticed the triangular tattoo on its bicep; clearly, it was a male. This mutant had been watching the others attack the car with an unreadable expression. Now, he cocked his head. With one swift movement, he crossed over to the second bottle, which was still full of gasoline. Then, he lifted it by its neck with two fingers in a gesture that seemed almost dainty and carried it back to the others.
Eli knew the mutants traded for nothing. They had no use for Levi's supplies; mostly, they scavenged and killed wild animals. They didn't need gas.
The big mutant said something, a few words the boy couldn't hear on account of the noise; but whatever it was, everyone stopped what he was doing and backed away from the car. In the silence, Eli could hear their bare feet crunching on the pebbled green glass sprayed across the shoulder and road. Once everyone had cleared, the mutant took the bottle and started splashing its contents over the remains of the mutilated Volvo.
Eli realized what the big mutant had pulled from his shoulder pouch, what he now held aloft in one hand and was tossing in the air like a toy.
It was a small plastic object, bright pink, the size of a thumb. A firestarter.
"Oh no," said Till next to him, involuntarily. "Please . . . don't!"
As if he had heard, the mutant gave a faint smile. He pressed a button on the side of the object once, twice; on the third time, and with a distinct _click_ , a small orange flame blossomed out of the top. Then he bent down and touched the flame to the wet, glistening asphalt.
The mutants scattered as fire licked and spread across the pavement and trampled grass, racing with unbelievable speed in rippling blue and yellow waves toward the car, the car that still had gas in it, at least half a tank of the precious stuff, maybe closer to a full tank. Leaping onto their bikes, the mutants took off and within seconds, they disappeared.
From their hiding place, Eli covered his head with one arm, the other around the unconscious Bekkah, his face pressed hard into the dusty ground. He braced himself and prayed that Till, next to him, would do the same.
Then the car exploded.
By the old railroad tracks, rusty and nearly obscured by weeds and trash, Esther heard the faraway blast. She froze; then she pulled Skar down so they were nearly hidden by the tall grass.
"What's going on?" Skar asked, although she already knew.
"Nothing," Esther lied.
Whooping and shrieking, the variants rode single file into town, rattling the broken, faded WELCOME TO PRIN sign as they thundered past. They spread into a V formation as they headed down the central street, flanked on both sides by sidewalks and two- and three-story buildings, with empty storefronts on the ground floors. While a few structures showed the effects of earlier recent attacks, most were unscathed.
The variants did not spare the first buildings they encountered. One stood on the foot pegs of a bicycle and whirled a sling around his head. He let fly with deadly accuracy, and the window of what had once been a clothing store shattered, collapsing in an explosion of broken glass.
Most of the variants rode ahead, while several dismounted, wielding chains and clubs. Using a broken windowsill as a foothold, one reached for the neon sign above the remains of a pharmacy; with one blow of her cudgel, she smashed it partway off the building, so it dangled at a crazy angle. She swung at it again, this time bringing it crashing down in pieces; then she proceeded to beat it into fragments on the street. Another whirled his sling above his head, launching rocks to smash one window after another.
Residents scattered for cover, taking refuge wherever they could find it. They had no time to consider the senselessness of the event; they had witnessed it in the weeks before, but this ambush was far worse, more savage and out of control.
A girl, age eleven or twelve, ran to a rusted car in the street and managed to roll underneath before being seen. As she lay there, she saw bare feet stop in front of her. Holding her breath, she watched as the feet paced back and forth. After what seemed an eternity, they walked away and she heard a bike take off.
Elsewhere, faces appeared in second-floor windows, looking at the mayhem.
One boy, Jonah, decided he would try to save the town single-handedly.
When the variants blasted down the main street, the ten-year-old had managed to scale the fire escape of a battered building without drawing attention. He had made his way to the roof, and now, lying on his belly on the hot tar, he gazed down at the destruction. In one hand, he gripped a lead pipe, which he had kept in his back pocket for weeks for exactly a moment such as this.
He watched as variants kicked in the front door of what had once been a bar. He watched as they caught a boy trying to escape, ripped his headdress off him, set it on fire, then tossed it through the broken door of an old hair salon. He watched until they seemed to tire of causing chaos, until they were ready to move on, and gathered to huddle their bikes to make a plan, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
They waited for the one they called Slayd.
The variant leader approached, skidding his bike to a halt. Leaning over the handlebars, he addressed the others with emphatic gestures. His back turned to the stores, Slayd didn't see the iron pipe, flung like a boomerang, winging toward his head.
Another variant saw it. He leaped forward, pushing Slayd out of the way and Slayd's protector was clipped on the side of the head by the pipe and was knocked cold, feet jerking up and down on the pavement.
The boy on the roof became an easy target. As Slayd got to his feet, the others let loose a volley of rocks toward the boy, who was scrambling down the fire escape. They nailed him at once—on the back, the legs, the head. He rolled down the final steps and dropped to the pavement with a sickening thud.
In the silence that followed, Slayd brushed off his tunic, dignity intact. He didn't acknowledge the protector any more than the assailant; both still lay, unconscious, on the ground. Instead, Slayd got back on his bike and led the rest of his band away, with a final, piercing shout. The last to leave grabbed the fallen variant and slung him over his shoulder. Then he too remounted his bicycle and was gone.
One by one, the townspeople straggled out of their hiding places. They stood in a state of shock on the street, breathing in the dust stirred up by the variants that still hung in the air.
There had been little left of their town in the first place. Now, there was even less.
## TWO
HOURS LATER, THE STREET WAS STILL EMPTY AND SILENT, LITTERED WITH shards of broken glass, rocks, and splintered wood. The dusty asphalt showed the scuffed marks of bike treads and bare footprints that the wind would soon erase. On the ground beneath the fire escape, a few red splatters had dried and were blackening in the afternoon heat.
Far in the distance, a thin plume of gray smoke spiraled upward before disappearing in the darkening sky.
At the edge of the main street stood a one-story brick building surrounded by a cement field marked with fading white lines. Two battered yellow arches loomed overhead atop a high metal pole. By some miracle, the large windows that dominated three of the walls had been spared in the recent attack.
Now a small, anxious face peered out from a clear spot rubbed on the grimy glass.
It belonged to a sentry, a dark-eyed boy perched on a molded table attached to the floor and focused on the empty street, keeping watch in case of another attack. He was perhaps six or seven years old and he fought to stay awake. Behind him, the crowded room was restless and noisy, with a shrill clamor of voices raised in anger, fear, and confusion.
Everyone from town, more or less, was present; and it seemed everyone had something to say. More than a hundred children and teens huddled on top of tables and chairs, along the grimy tile floor and the stainless-steel counter. A lone child sat in the corner, soothing a younger girl who lay cradled in her lap, sucking from a dirty soda bottle. A few others retreated deep into their thoughts, staring upward at the ceiling.
One boy banged his fist on the metal counter until the others stopped talking.
"We got to go after them," he shouted, his voice hoarse. He was nine, with a baseball cap pulled backward over his shaggy brown hair. "Before they attack us again."
An older girl sitting on a table across the room shook her head. She was dark skinned and had several colorful belts cinched around her grimy robes.
"You mean go into mutant territory?" she shouted. "That's crazy . . . they got more people. Or whatever they are."
At that, the room erupted as everyone started talking once more. Another boy, pale and freckled, spoke up from where he sat on the floor.
"Maybe they _are_ people," he said. He looked to be about eleven. "Like us, only different. They're boys and girls in one body. Maybe—"
The older girl sitting next to him, also freckled, smacked him hard across the ear. "Shut up!" she hissed; but no one had even heard. Another boy, so small his feet dangled a good two feet off the floor as he rested on the edge of the counter, piped up.
"And they got weapons. How can we fight if they got weapons and we don't?"
Others chimed in.
"He's right. We don't got a chance."
"But if we do nothing, they're gonna come back. Maybe next time, they'll kill us all."
"They almost killed Jonah. When we brought him inside, he was bleeding pretty bad."
People glanced at the would-be hero from the roof, who leaned against the counter; the side of his face was badly scraped and his left arm hung at a useless angle.
Nearby, Bekkah stood close to Eli, the blood-soaked T-shirt tied around her head not quite hiding the ugly purple and yellow bruise spreading down her cheek. Her left eye was swollen nearly shut and when she spoke, she sounded exhausted.
"They always been peaceful," she said. "Now they've attacked us four times. What do they want? It don't make sense."
As the arguments raged, one person was watching the proceedings with a shrewd eye.
It was the leader of the town, who leaned against the far wall, with his arms folded. Short, with wide hips and stringy hair, eighteen-year-old Rafe had been elected to his one-year term the previous winter by the usual show of hands. It hadn't taken him long to realize how much he enjoyed not only the prestige of his position but the perks as well. He was spared work assignments and was also given an extra weekly allotment of food and water. And so despite his advanced age, he was planning how he could be reelected for another term.
The recent variant attacks, he figured, gave him as good an issue to run on as any.
Rafe held up his hands for calm. As usual, he remained silent while the others exhausted themselves with bickering and suggestions. When he did speak, this gave him the impression of both thoughtfulness and authority.
"There ain't never been sense to mutants," he said. He also knew enough to speak softly; this forced everyone in the room to lean forward to hear him. "They're like wild dogs. And I say we wipe 'em out."
The girl next to him was shaking her head, arms folded over her thin chest. "That's always your answer, Rafe," she said. Against the relative whiteness of her robes, her skin looked dark and withered; she appeared at least two decades older than her sixteen years. "It ain't so easy."
"Let him speak," shouted the boy with baseball cap.
"Yeah," chimed in another voice. "How do you say we do it?"
Again, Rafe waited until the room grew quiet.
"We go to Levi," he said. "We go there and we ask for weapons. _Real_ weapons, I mean. Knives. Arrows. That way, at least we got a chance—"
The dark-skinned girl sitting on the table cut him off.
"But there ain't no gas left to trade for the things we really need—like to eat and drink," she said, her voice shrill. "And Levi's been cutting back on what he pays us."
Most were nodding their heads in agreement. The dark girl continued. "We got nothing else to give him. Without gas, why would he even talk to us?"
Rafe smiled. He had anticipated this question.
"Maybe not to you or me, unless we got something to trade," he said. "That's all he cares about. But there's _one_ of us I bet he'd talk to."
Then he turned to look at a girl sitting alone by the window.
It was dusk; the meeting had been going on for nearly two hours. The small sentry at the window had relaxed his vigilance and dozed at his post. Behind him, several of the townspeople had lit candles, which they set on the tables and counters. As the nighttime darkened around them, the gritty windows reflected what was going on inside the room. From outside, the townspeople were all too visible, and with no view of what might be approaching.
If attackers were to come, they would arrive unseen.
And in fact, two people were now scuttling toward the lit building. Yet they were not there to do harm.
Esther bent low and ran from one shadow to the next, zigzagging down the sidewalk. She had been gone since before dawn. Although Esther chose to ignore the far-off explosion, she knew that it had to do with the variants. Now, uneasy, she could not help but notice the freshly smashed windows and broken storefronts that lined the main street of Prin.
Behind her was a reluctant and increasingly panicked Skar. With the stink of burning gasoline still lingering in the night air, the last thing she wanted was to be confronted by the town.
"Esther," Skar whispered, pulling at her friend's arm for what must have been the hundredth time, "please. Let's not do this!"
"Don't worry," said Esther. "They can't see us."
And Skar had to admit: This part was true.
It wasn't just that the darkness gave them ample cover. Over the years, Esther had worked hard to become adept at variant ways—the peculiar stalking, hunting, and trapping methods that Skar had taught her, skills that had been second nature to the variant girl since early childhood. Skills that let you become almost invisible.
Esther ran on the balls of her feet, using cover and shadow to hide her progress, avoiding the straight line of approach, doubling back, leaping up to edge a few steps along railings and windowsills, seizing every possible handhold and foothold available to her: all the tricks a variant did to confound expectation and confuse the eye. If she were to be honest, Skar could fault Esther on a half dozen mistakes: Her tread was too heavy, her breathing too loud. The worst was that the girl still couldn't interpret the terrain as having many possible pathways, not just the obvious one; she didn't know how to strategize on her feet. Even so, although she would never say so out loud, Skar had to admit:
_Not bad for a norm._
The two reached the building where the meeting was taking place and slipped into the adjoining alley. Esther took a swift, birdlike peek into a window, as Skar cringed in the shadows beside her, trembling with anxiety.
"Big group in there," Esther said; "looks like everybody in town."
Skar's expression grew even more tense. "Can we go now?" she begged.
"Not yet," replied Esther. "We've got to hear what they're planning. It could be important."
"What are you going to do?"
Esther didn't answer. Skar was about to repeat her question when she saw what Esther was doing.
She was trying to climb the bare brick wall.
Despite her mounting anxiety, Skar couldn't help smiling. Esther was attempting something she had learned only that week: using the tips of her fingers and toes to gain a hold on even the shallowest dents and faintest bumps in a surface. In this way, a variant could—with practice and the right combination of strength, balance, and weight distribution—scale even the smoothest-seeming wall, like a fly. Esther was able to grip the bricks with both her fingers and the tips of her sneakers, and she moved upward clumsily, yet with surprising speed.
By now, Esther was too far up the wall for Skar to call her back. Feeling resigned, the variant made a quick decision and followed.
Moving at twice the speed of her friend and with enviable grace, Skar clambered up the brick wall and caught up with Esther within moments. At the last second, she was polite enough not to overtake her. Instead, they reached the roof together and Skar even allowed Esther the illusion of pulling her up once she had reached the top.
"Don't worry," Esther whispered, clearly proud of herself; "I got you. And I got here first!"
But her jubilation made her forget herself and she stood upright, something a variant would never do, especially not in a moment of triumph, the one moment your guard was down.
Skar hissed a warning at her, but it was too late.
Esther wavered and then lost her balance, falling forward onto the roof and landing hard. The top of the building was steeply tilted on both sides like an old-fashioned cottage from a picture book, covered with overlapping reddish-brown tiles. Esther started to slide, her fingers scrabbling in vain to get a grasp of the tattered clay rows.
Skar reached out a hand, but it was no good. Esther kept sliding, rapidly approaching the edge.
At the last possible second, she was able to wedge one foot into the shaky rain gutter while grabbing onto a few secure tiles. One broke off under her hand; it skittered down the roof and disappeared in the darkness beneath them with a faint crash.
With surprising speed, Esther crawled her way back up to her friend, who was huddled miserably, waiting for her.
"I knew this was a bad idea," Skar said.
The variant was astounded that inside, no one had heard the incredible noise Esther had just made. Any one of her people would have been outside investigating the suspicious sounds within seconds. She wished (and not for the first time) that Esther wasn't so stubborn.
"But we just got here," Esther whispered. She flattened down onto her stomach and crawled toward one of the many gaps in the tiles. "And I want to hear what they're talking about."
Skar had no choice but to follow her. She sat next to her friend, knees huddled close and bulging eyes shut tight.
One gap afforded a limited view of the room below. Esther glanced down, then placed her ear over the hole and concentrated. There were many people speaking at once, but she was able to detect a female voice. She had to strain to hear what she was saying.
"We got nothing else to give him. Without gas, why would Levi even talk to us?"
She peered through the hole. Esther could see the tops of heads, a few familiar faces. She recognized Rafe, the current leader of the town elders, a boy she hated because beneath his superior airs, he was both a coward and blowhard. As usual, he was doing his trick of talking softly. Esther had to put her ear close to the hole and focus hard in order to discern his words.
"Maybe not to you or me, unless we got something to trade," he was saying. "That's all he cares about. But there's _one_ of us I bet he'd talk to."
Who were they talking about?
There was a brief silence, followed by a faint murmuring as people stood and craned their necks, looking to see who he was discussing. Esther followed their gaze and was startled.
It was a girl, seventeen, with dark, straight hair held back in a ponytail. Unlike everyone else in town, her robes were relatively clean and gathered neatly at her waist with a dark cord. She seemed embarrassed by all the attention, yet flattered as well.
"I . . . I don't know," she was saying. "For one thing, I don't know what good it would do. I've never been to the Source. I can't even remember the last time I spoke to Levi . . ."
Esther pulled back, as if struck. "Hey."
"What is it?" Skar asked, opening her eyes.
"It's my sister. Sarah."
Frowning, Esther sat back on her heels. In that position, she could see the place they were talking about, where Levi lived. The Source lay to the northeast of town and was something she saw every day, as much a part of her landscape as the sun. Although it was nearly a mile away, it was hard to miss from anywhere in town.
The gigantic white building was like a beacon, huge and blindingly lit with electrical lights. They threw deep shadows across the trenches that lay next to it, black gashes in an overgrown field. The holes were just three of the dozens of pits scattered across town that the people dug day after day when they were unlucky enough to be assigned to the Excavation. The front and side of the Source faced a monstrous asphalt field marked with fading white lines and still crowded with the dusty remains of cars.
Now, it seemed Rafe and his followers wanted something from Levi, something new. And they apparently needed Sarah, the childhood friend who once knew him best of all, to be the intermediary.
Esther didn't like it.
She glanced at Skar, who was amusing herself by tossing a small knife up in the air and catching it. She wasn't even paying attention, and for that, Esther felt a stab of exasperation. Skar was, after all, only who she was—a great friend, but one who was easily bored, like a little child.
And little children needed to be protected.
Esther knew it would be up to her. She was not sure how she would do it, but at least she knew where to start.
It was evening. Shadows cowered low to the ground and scurried through the streets and alleys of Prin.
They were feral dogs, rooting through piles of garbage for something to eat. They snapped and fought over whatever they could sniff out, anything that was remotely edible: the stale and salty ends of flatbread, rabbit bones that had been sucked of their marrow, the burned crust of rice porridge. The dogs of Prin were dingy and skeletal, cringing yet vicious beasts accustomed to skulking in the shadows and traveling by night in packs.
There was, however, one stretch of sidewalk that had been swept clean. The storefront window behind it had not only been patched over with flattened cardboard and gaffer's tape; it looked like someone had actually taken the trouble to measure it so it fit properly. A cracked and battered sign above what was once the window read STARBUCKS COFFEE in block white letters on a green background. And above the sign, a light was visible in the second-floor window.
Agitated shadows moved across the curtain. Behind the thin fabric, Esther was getting in her sister's face.
"But you can't go," she was saying.
Esther was trying hard not to raise her voice, because she knew losing her temper would only cost her the argument the way it always did. Instead, she tried to sound reasonable, clasping her hands tightly behind her back.
"You can't ask Levi for weapons," she said. "This whole thing is starting to get crazy."
Sarah stood at the kitchen counter, cleaning out the firebowl with a rag. The older girl acted as if getting rid of every last trace of soot and ash was the most important thing in the world. She was doing what annoyed Esther the most: ignoring her because she was focused on something more meaningful, something _adult_.
"Pass me those," was all Sarah said, nodding at the forks and spoons.
Frustrated, Esther picked up the handful of dirty silverware. She couldn't help herself; as she handed them over, she slammed them down on the counter harder than she intended to. At the noise, her sister jumped, to Esther's private satisfaction. Then Sarah turned all her attention back to cleaning up.
"How could you listen to those people?" continued Esther, still trying to sound calm. "Rafe? He's a big mouth, that's all. And the others—they're just thugs who want an excuse to hurt people."
"I didn't say I was definitely going to see Levi," Sarah replied. Unlike everyone else in town, she spoke in a fussy, formal manner she had probably picked up from all her reading. It was yet another thing that irritated Esther about her sister. Sarah pushed a few grains of uneaten rice into a plastic container, which she sealed and put away. Then she finished wiping the silverware.
The plates, bowls, and cups were chipped and cracked, yet they were mostly a matched set, what had once been a pretty green and purple. Thanks to Sarah, the entire apartment was tidy and clean. Unlike the other homes in Prin, filled with piles of filthy blankets and clothing and utensils, their place was almost stylish, and the curtains in the windows were white.
The walls were decorated with tattered ads Sarah had found in town—mysterious posters for Absolut vodka, Continental Airlines, New York Yankees. There were even several shelves of books, which Esther had barely glanced at. "Besides," continued Esther, "why do you think Levi will even talk to you? You haven't seen him in years. And all he cares about is how much gas people bring him. He don't care about anything else."
" _Doesn't_ , not _don't_ ," said Sarah, her face flushing. "And he's not like that. He's a good person."
Esther shot her sister a look, sensing something in her she hadn't seen before. She knew that when they were much younger, Sarah and Levi had been close friends and that she had taught him how to read. But that was about all she knew. Esther had a hunch she might be able to find a new point of vulnerability. "Well, if he's so good, how come we never see him?"
Sarah shrugged, seemingly unaffected, as she stacked the plates, her back to her sister. "Levi's a busy man," she said.
Esther scowled, looking down. There was a design on the countertop that she jabbed at with her finger. "Busy bossing everyone around."
Sarah's voice hardened.
"If he didn't run things," she said, "we all would have died a long time ago. And I don't see you turning down food you don't work for."
Esther's hunch was right; she had touched a nerve. Still, she flinched from the uncomfortable truth.
She could not deny that she lived off the food that Levi provided and that Sarah not only earned, but prepared as well. Esther didn't know the first thing about how to pound the otherwise inedible rice and beans into flour, or how to mix it with water and pat it into flatbread. She had never once stoked the firebowl with charcoal or cooked watery porridge on its blackened grill. These were all Sarah's jobs, and while Esther had always taken that for granted, she realized that it did not strengthen her position. If anything, it made her even more of a child, someone not to be taken seriously.
"Besides, who's better?" Sarah said. "The mutants?"
"Don't call them that," Esther said under her breath.
Her sister didn't stop. "At least we didn't go around attacking people, like the _mutants_." She emphasized the hateful word. "We're better than that."
"Whatever's happening now, it's not their fault," said Esther. Sarah rolled her eyes, but her sister continued. "Maybe they're just hungry. Besides, they mostly don't hurt people . . . only buildings and things." And despite herself, she opened up. "They're nice, Sarah, they really are. Maybe one or two of them are bad, but—"
Sarah snorted. "Oh, please," she said as she started putting the dishes away. "I wish to God you'd stop socializing with them. You and your little friend Star—"
"Skar."
"And that lunatic in that building, with all the cats. What's his name? Joseph? You're not a baby anymore, Esther. It's about time you weaned yourself away from all of them."
Esther tried to rein in her emotions, but she could feel her control slipping as tears sprung to her eyes. "Why do you hate my friends?" she asked.
"I don't hate anybody," said Sarah. Her voice sounded frozen. "I'm only looking out for you, since apparently you can't do that yourself."
A sob escaped. Furious and ashamed, Esther pushed her fists into her eyes to keep tears from falling.
Sarah sighed, and her tone softened. "I just wish you weren't so . . . naive, Esther."
Esther felt a new stab of annoyance. "You know I don't know what that word is," she muttered.
"Do you really think they want to be your friends?" Sarah said. She spoke softly, almost gently. "They're all probably waiting to break in here so they can rob us blind."
"Rob us? Of what? Our matching coffee cups?" Esther managed to say. Tears were running down her face and she wiped her nose with her sleeve.
Sarah gazed at her; you could almost see something settle in her mind. It was what Esther feared all along and she cursed herself. She had once again driven her sister in the opposite direction.
"Thank you," Sarah said. "If I wasn't sure about whether or not to see Levi, I am now. Why all this trouble is going on, I honestly don't know. But I'm sure he'll put an end to it."
Esther was overwhelmed with bitterness—at her failure to keep her sister from going to the Source, and her inability to control her emotions, to play it cool. To strategize, as Skar would say.
"Fine," Esther yelled. "Fine!"
She pushed past her sister.
Sarah's voice betrayed mild panic. "Where are you going?" she called after her. The only response was the slam of the front door. Inside one of the many cupboards, something fell off a shelf and broke with a small crash.
Once outside, Esther walked blindly through the darkness for several blocks before she calmed down enough to think. She could sense rather than hear a pack of feral dogs rummaging nearby. The animals were cowardly yet, when desperate, had been known to attack anybody unwise enough to be outside at night, alone, without a weapon.
Esther sat on a street corner, her ears keyed to a possible attack, adrenaline coursing through her body. She knew it was stupid to be outside, yet she needed to make a physical statement, to create some distance.
After an hour, she went back.
She suspected her sister would sit up waiting for her, as she had so many times in the past; in fact, she secretly wanted it to be true. Yet when Esther returned, she found Sarah in her room, asleep. As she stood over her, Esther experienced a strange, twisting sensation in her stomach. She had an impulse to touch her sister's long, black hair, fanned out on the white pillowcase and framing her face, but at the last second, she changed her mind.
Instead, she went back to the main room and sat alone in the dark. Stubbornly, she decided she would wait to watch the sun come up.
Hours later the first rays of light found her sound asleep, fully dressed, curled like a cat on the far end of the couch.
Miles away, someone else was watching the sun rise.
It was a solitary boy on a bike, on the major roadway that passed by the outskirts of Prin. At sixteen, Caleb was lean and deeply sunburned, with a strong jaw and hazel eyes that, despite his distrustful gaze, had once been gentle.
Like Esther, Caleb chose to protect himself from the sun in his own way. He wore a long-sleeved denim shirt, jeans, canvas gloves, and a battered Outback hat. In his backpack, he carried a few belongings. His vehicle was a scuffed black mountain bike with patched tires that had seen many miles.
He had been on the road for months and could finally see his destination on the horizon: a glimpse of the lone church spire that marked the town of Prin.
And still, he hesitated.
He unzipped his backpack, took out a green steel bottle, and swished it around. As he feared, it was nearly empty. The sun had only just risen and the morning was still cool. Yet the sky was cloudless and he knew it would be another day of blazing heat.
By the side of the road was an old gas station, abandoned and in ruins. In front, Caleb noticed several rusty old oil barrels. One of them was uncovered and now brimmed over with rainwater from a recent storm.
Caleb walked his bike to the edge of where the grass used to be and released the rickety kickstand. Then he crossed to the barrels and looked down. The water was so clear, you could see all the way to the bottom, where a pink pebble lay. He couldn't help himself; he stooped to smell it, and at its irresistibly cold scent, he imagined plunging his head into it, opening his parched mouth and swallowing, gulping, drinking as much as he could without coming up for air.
His eyes were closed and his lips were at the surface of the water; at the last second, he gave a shudder and forced himself to pull back.
That would have been suicide.
The trembling surface reflected the cloudless sky above him. It also reflected his face, which shocked him with its gauntness and its look of need.
Making up his mind, he uncapped his green bottle, lifted it to his lips, and emptied it within seconds. It was only a few mouthfuls of hot and metallic water, but he savored every drop.
Then Caleb got back on his bike and headed for town.
## THREE
AS MOTHS DANCED AROUND THE BRIGHT SPOTLIGHTS OVERHEAD, SARAH waited outside the Source, nervously brushing back her hair.
Before she left, she had primped in front of her cracked mirror, combing her long hair so that it lay across her shoulders in a style she thought was pretty. Now she tried to make it stay that way.
She had never been this close to the enormous building; few in Prin had. She stood in front of the giant steel front door that rose and lowered, powered by electricity. Posted at a discreet distance on all sides were armed guards, silent and hooded. Sarah had approached one with trepidation earlier that day. She had passed along a note, requesting to speak with Levi, not knowing if she'd ever get a response. To her surprise, within a few hours, she received a note back, inviting her for dinner that night, alone.
Now the guards urged her forward and ushered her inside.
Sarah entered, nervous and excited. She adjusted her eyes to a dark and cavernous interior, lit by electric lights kept low.
Towering shapes hulked on all sides. They were giant shelves that rose to the ceiling, all of them fully stocked with oversize cartons. Sarah made out some of the words printed on them: THIS END UP. POWDERED MILK. DEHYDRATED CARROTS. WHEAT GRAIN. 200 GALLONS. POLAND SPRING WATER. HANDLE WITH CARE.
Then, emerging from the shadows was Levi.
Like everyone else in Prin, Sarah had not laid eyes on him in years. Levi was now a tall seventeen-year-old, with dark eyes and a mouth set in a hard line. He wore only black: jeans, button-down shirt, leather boots, all of which set off the extreme pallor of his skin. Yet when he recognized her, he smiled; and in that instant, he became the old Levi again, the boy with the watchful eyes she'd once known so well. The boy she had taught to read and who she thought might one day propose to her.
"Sarah," was all he said.
Levi escorted her through the dimly lit Source. When they rounded a corner, she almost cried out in shock. A single electric light overhead threw deep shadows into the surrounding cavernous space. It illuminated a large table, laid with a rich cloth and piled high with plates of roast rabbit and salted flatbread, enough to feed at least a dozen for days. There were also strange foods she had never seen before: bowls of steaming, fragrant liquids and soft, glossy breads that were still hot.
As they started to eat, Sarah told herself to focus. She knew that she was there on serious business. Yet for the longest time, she couldn't speak. She could only eat, ravenously. On the table was something new to her, a bottle of dark purplish-red liquid.
"Have some," Levi said, hoisting it.
Before she had a chance to answer, Levi was filling her glass. At first, Sarah winced at its sharp taste, but with each sip, she found she liked it more and more. By her second glass, she was simply listening as Levi spoke of small things: her health; Sarah's sister, Esther; the people in town. Sarah was thrilled by the thought that despite all of his power, her old friend evidently still cared about her and remembered names and details from a long-ago time, their shared youth.
_Esther was wrong about him,_ she thought.
She was only vaguely aware that, unlike her, Levi had eaten very little. He grew silent, watching her from across the table with an unreadable expression as he toyed with a glass of the purple liquid he had barely touched. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something; and she remembered that, of course, that was why she was here.
Sarah guiltily wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin and cleared her throat.
"Levi," she said, "as you probably know, the mutants have been attacking, and it's getting worse. There's no one in town strong enough to do anything." She heard the contempt that had crept into her voice, but she didn't care. "They need your help."
She thought of the twelve-year-old who had arrived in town five years ago and broken into the shuttered and locked Source when no one else could. Before then, Prin was a ghost town inhabited by a few dozen, a wasteland on the verge of extinction. Through sheer intelligence and willpower, Sarah thought fuzzily, Levi had single-handedly transformed it. Sequestered in the white building, he became the hidden engine that kept the town running.
Now he would save it again.
"They need weapons," she said, in a rush. "Real weapons, not just sticks or rocks. They need knives, arrows, clubs . . . whatever you can spare."
Levi inclined his head in a slight nod but said nothing. The purple liquid had made Sarah expansive and uninhibited. She spread her hands out in a naked appeal.
"You've been so generous already," she said. "If you could supply them with arms, they would forever be in your debt."
There was a long pause before Levi answered.
"I see," he said.
He picked up his glass but only studied the liquid inside. An idea seemed to come to him and he looked up.
"To be honest," he said, "I'm not even sure if we have what you want in stock. Weapons, knives, clubs . . . I don't know if we've seen much of that kind of thing around here. Have we?" He addressed this last part to his guards, who murmured negatively.
Levi's guards were all clearly armed. Sarah was confused. "Are you sure you—"
Levi set down his drink and stood.
"May I show you something?"
The way he asked it wasn't a question. Unsteadily, Sarah got to her feet. Swaying from the drink, she took a final, surreptitious bite of rabbit before following Levi out.
The guards kept their distance as Sarah trailed Levi through the endless, murky recesses of the building. She struggled to keep pace with her host. It was not easy, for he walked swiftly, sure of the path. Silver things flashed on his wrists and fingers—rings, watches, bracelets—and Sarah focused on them, as if they were stars in the night sky, to keep from getting left behind.
The crowded shelves towered above her.
In her inebriated state, Sarah knew they represented wealth of the most genuine and therefore precious kind. In a world of poisoned rain, scorching heat, and ashen skies, even a single jug of water, one of the hundreds stored here, perhaps thousands, held the balance of life and death to the people of Prin.
Sarah extended a hand to touch one of the cartons. But before she could, a guard materialized from nowhere and shoved her aside.
"Keep close," Levi called from a few steps ahead, "and don't touch anything. There are things that can hurt you if you're not careful."
Only then did Sarah realize that the shelves were encircled with loops of heavy wire, the kind she had seen on a few buildings downtown: wire studded with razors that could easily slice through leather, let alone human skin.
Levi stopped. He pressed something on the wall and the air was loud with humming. In front of them was a wide ramp that led to a lower floor, and now it began to move on its own. Levi stepped on and gestured for Sarah to follow.
Sarah hesitated, frightened. Then she finally stepped on because Levi was far ahead and she stumbled, nearly falling. Terrified, she clung to the moving handrail, until she reached the lower level, where Levi was waiting for her.
He set off again through darkened aisles, then down a narrow hallway, where more guards kept watch over a battered steel door. Behind that, a poorly lit stairway led even farther downward to a series of hallways with low ceilings.
Levi stopped at a doorway. A small sign next to it read: BOILER ROOM.
"Here we go," he said. Then he opened the door and flicked a switch set into the wall.
Sarah gasped.
The blinding overhead light revealed a windowless room that was furnished sparsely, with a desk and single chair. The rest of the place was empty except for one set of shelves. Unlike the ones upstairs, however, it was not stacked high with supplies, nor was it guarded by barbed wire. Instead it was filled with books: dozens of them, battered and mildewed. Compared to the meager collection in Sarah's home, this was a veritable library.
"You kept them," was all Sarah could manage to say.
Levi smiled. "I figured since you bothered teaching me, it was the least I could do."
Sarah ran her hand over a row of bindings and this time, no guard rushed forward to push her out of the way. She marveled at the titles and names she remembered, books she had salvaged from vacant homes and looted stores many years ago and later used to teach Levi how to read: John Grisham, _The Joy of Cooking_ , _American and European Furniture: 1830–1914_ , _A_ _Cavalcade of Jokes_ , Stephen King, Richard Scarry. The Bible. The Brothers Grimm.
Levi had been a difficult student, moody and hotheaded. Yet he was diligent and had a hunger to learn. Within a year, his abilities had equaled and then surpassed hers. Sarah hoped that since they were both twelve, their relationship might shift into something deeper. But then Levi ended the lessons. Not long afterward, he broke his way into the Source and disappeared from the streets of Prin.
Sarah had always wondered where the books had gone. And now, she blushed as it occurred to her why he had held on to them all these years.
"Sarah," Levi said.
She turned to him, her heart pounding. He was holding out a book to her. She took it, uncomprehending.
"This was one I found especially interesting," he said. "But you only gave me the first volume. Do you have the other?"
Puzzled, Sarah turned the book over in her hands. She couldn't recall ever seeing it before. It was an academic volume, dense and impenetrable. She flipped through it, but had never heard of any of the words: "Topography." "Aquifers." "Spring flow measurements." "Hydrosphere."
"I might," she said, handing it back. Frankly, it wasn't the kind of book she liked or understood, but she had several such volumes she rarely glanced at. "It could be in my house. I'm not positive what books are there."
Levi nodded, refusing to take it. "Why don't you hold on to it?" he said. "Because I'd really appreciate it if you could find me the second volume." Before Sarah could respond, he added, "We'll talk again when you do. And by then, I just might have some more weapons in."
Sarah understood. If she could find what he needed, this meeting wouldn't be their last. And as she was thinking this, he was seizing her by the waist and pulling her close. He kissed her, lingeringly.
"Let's keep this our secret," he murmured. "All of it. All right?"
Sarah couldn't speak for a second. "Yes," she said.
Her voice almost sounded normal, even though her face was burning. She couldn't hide the smile that covered her face.
Moments later, Sarah was outside, walking, if unsteadily, away from the Source. The white of her robes seemed to give off an unearthly glow in the bright glare of spotlights that sliced across the darkened parking lot.
From a tiny window hidden high up in the Source, Levi watched as the girl was swallowed by the surrounding darkness. As before, his expression was unreadable. He thought about the past and, for a moment, almost felt sorry for Sarah.
Then he shrugged it off. She was like everyone else in this world: just a means to an end.
Levi returned to his office. There he examined the handmade maps of Prin he had drawn, the laborious approximations of its physical layout that were tacked up on his walls. They had taken him more than five years of careful study and reflected the locations of not only each of the forty-seven Excavations to date but every Gleaning, as well. Still, they had not brought him closer to what he was seeking. Frustrated, he was tempted to tear them all down.
Levi had come to Prin, drawn by a rumor of its hidden clean waters. He met Sarah, who taught him how to read. Most books he found worthless; yet one convinced him that the notion of an underground network of springs was true. All he needed was a little more time to locate it, but time was running out.
Unlike everyone else, he always knew the supplies in the Source were limited. In the last few months, they had reached dangerously low levels. He recently had doubled and tripled the workloads, driving the town to exhaustion, and increased the punishments for shirking. It was a delicate balance, squeezing the greatest amount of work out of the people before getting rid of them.
Sarah's unexpected appearance had given him new hope. If anything, he was annoyed at himself for not having thought of this earlier.
He needed the book, the companion to the text Sarah had given him so many years ago. With any luck, she would soon find it and bring it back to him, as trusting and unquestioning as a dog. And just as easily satisfied, with a little affection and a good meal.
Someone broke into his thoughts.
"Is she gone yet?"
Levi nodded, without looking, as a girl encircled his waist with her arms. She had sand-colored skin and hair, her eyes were a vivid blue, and her thin clothing fit close and tight to her figure. Her name was Michal and she was perhaps fourteen.
"Then can we eat now?" she continued.
Levi looked down at her. "Sure," he said.
The two headed back upstairs to the dining area, where guards stood watch over the ruins of the table. Even hooded as they were, they resembled wild dogs themselves, staring at the leftovers, their eyes visible and gleaming in the spill of the electric light.
"I still don't know why you put out so much," said Michal as she sat, and began piling roast rabbit onto her plate. She licked some off a finger. "I thought lots of people were coming. Why so much food for one old woman?"
Levi smiled. "You wouldn't understand," he said.
But Michal was no longer listening. She was too busy eating.
## FOUR
THE NIGHT SKY WAS DARK AND HEAVY. YET AT CERTAIN TIMES, THE dense clouds parted, allowing moonlight to shine down. Someone stood by a window above the main street, gazing into the night.
Esther had been waiting like this, filled with dread, for hours. If Sarah returned home accompanied by Levi's men carrying weapons, she had no idea how she would be able to stop them. So when she spied a gleam of white coming down the sidewalk, she was relieved to see Sarah was not only unescorted, but also empty handed. Esther was so thankful, she barely noticed that the older girl was behaving strangely when she came in. Her cheeks flushed and eyes glittering, her prim sister was talking in a loud and aggressive voice, slurring her words.
"Levi didn't have any weapons," Sarah announced as she entered, before she had even removed her outer robes. Then she added snidely, "So your friends the mutants won't have any opposition. That should make you feel good."
But there was something careless about Sarah's tone, as if she was not paying attention to her words and was just saying what she believed would mollify her sister. She was not revealing what was actually going on, Esther suspected.
"Rafe's coming over in a little while," said her sister. She was folding away her robes, clearly trying to sound casual and unconcerned. "It'll just be business talk. Nothing important."
Esther nodded, as if the thought of a late-night visit from the town's leader was an everyday occurrence.
"You're right," she said. "It sounds boring. I think I'll go to bed now."
She tried faking a yawn, stretching her arms over her head. If Skar were here, she would laugh at how obvious the ploy was. But Sarah didn't even seem to notice.
Once inside her room, Esther knew enough to change into her sleeping shirt and get into bed. When she heard Rafe's knock less than an hour later, her sister checked in on her, opening the door just wide enough to let in a crack of candlelight from the living room. Esther, motionless, kept her eyes shut and breathed slowly. But once the door was pulled shut, she flew across the room, kneeling in the dark to listen.
"Don't worry," Sarah was whispering. "Levi has weapons and is happy to give them to us. It will just take a while, that's all."
"We ain't got a while," Rafe said loudly, not whispering at all.
"Shhh," murmured Sarah. "My sister."
"We ain't got a while," Rafe repeated in a harsh whisper. "We ain't got no time to waste while Levi plays games with you. Can't you see he's just playing you for a fool?"
"You have to trust me. If you'll just be patient—"
"Don't you get it?" hissed Rafe. "The mutants ain't being patient. Next time, they gonna murder us in our own beds on account there ain't nothing we can do about it. At least not without weapons."
"Please," said Sarah. "Just wait and see."
From where she listened, Esther was now convinced that her sister knew more than she was letting on. Rafe, however, was too stupid to understand that.
"All you had to do was bat your eyes at him," he said. "Guess I was a fool for thinking anyone might still want you. Thanks to you, we're on our own."
A second later, the front door slammed.
Esther only had enough time to get back into bed and shut her eyes before the door creaked open one last time. After a moment, the door was pulled shut and Sarah walked away.
Esther counted to ten before creeping out of bed. She opened her door and slipped into the hallway. In the darkness, she sensed a faint glow was coming from the living room.
It took Esther a few moments to realize what Sarah was doing. Although her sister kept a set of shelves full of musty books, they were now mostly for show; she rarely read anymore. Yet right now, Sarah was on her knees, searching through her collection. She worked methodically, muttering to herself as she pulled out one book after another, squinting to read their titles, then discarding them in a growing pile next to her.
Despite the care she was taking, she seemed desperate. For it was clear that she couldn't find what she was searching for.
After half an hour of watching Sarah, Esther couldn't stop a real yawn from escaping her mouth. Fearing she'd be discovered, she slipped back to bed.
But sleep proved to be impossible. With a tightness in her chest, Esther lay in the dark brooding over what she had just seen and heard, events no one trusted her enough to explain.
As the first rays of sun brightened the leaden sky, someone could be fleetingly seen darting through the shadows of Prin.
Esther was bringing supplies to her friend Joseph. She came alone; no one else in town cared to visit the village outcast, the eccentric pariah who lived on the outskirts of town, close to the Source, alone with his timepieces and cats. Even Skar was made uncomfortable by him. "The crazy one," she called him privately.
Joseph was not just one of the rare individuals in town who could read; he also kept a cluttered and moldering library that included old magazines and newspapers. The walls and surfaces of his home held dozens of watches and clocks in working order, homemade calendars, even hourglasses and a sundial. The rooms were filled with the gentle and persistent murmur of ancient gears shifting, second hands ticking, and the occasional muted chime.
Although Joseph was an old friend, this was no mere social call. For years, Esther had been skimming the supplies from her household to share with him. She sensed that if she did not do so, he would die, for he was too proud to ask for help. The girl took pains to hide her theft—pouring off the remaining water into different vessels, for instance, so it was harder to gauge how much there was. But recently, she had been bringing less because there was less to steal.
Esther chose to make her deliveries at dawn, a time when the wild dogs had long since left and the townspeople had not yet risen. But the relative cool of early morning vanished as the sun rose. It was sweaty and dangerous work to make one's way across the ruptured ground and giant, uprooted pine trees that protected Joseph's home like steel pikes around a prison, and as effectively, too. This was true even when one was not carrying a heavy armload of food and water.
Joseph and his ten cats (Malawi, Benjamin, Tiffany, Samsung, Mr. Roberts, Seven for All Mankind, Ginger, Claude, Tiger Boy, and Stumpy) lived in the wreckage of a hotel called the Gideon Putnam. Uncomfortable with people and frightened of open spaces, he had retreated there years ago; its remote location and condition scared off the curious. The lobby was a blasted ruin. One had to cross it to gain access to the stairwell, where seven flights of cracked and crumbling steps awaited. Like most of Prin, the building had sustained heavy damage in the series of earthquakes that had flattened much of the surrounding area some years ago, and it was no mean feat to navigate it without the carpeted ground giving way or sections of the ceiling collapsing. There were entire floors Joseph dared not venture onto. Sometimes, in fact, he was quite certain the whole building was about to fall down.
Now, as he worked his way around his apartment, winding and adjusting each of his clocks and watches, Esther's signal sounded from somewhere in the building: a two-note whistle. Joseph's cats recognized it and began to call and mill about. They were fond of her, or perhaps they were just fond of the bits of dried meat she always brought.
"Joseph," Esther said as she appeared at his door.
Joseph looked as he always did: with long, unkempt hair and light-colored eyes. He was so tall, slender, and stoop-shouldered that he seemed to undulate rather than walk.
She didn't waste time with small talk. "Lately, the food payments are down even more," she said. "And the water payments are worse. This was the best I could manage." With that, she set down a gallon of water and a bag of cornmeal by the soot-filled firebowl in his hallway. "I don't know when I can bring you any more after today."
Joseph seemed to think this over and nodded gravely. The fact of the matter was, he couldn't support his brood and himself on Esther's supplies alone. He had never mentioned it, but he had long been in the habit of setting traps for the various wild animals that visited his roof and basement in order to supplement what she brought. In fact, he prided himself on his squirrel stew.
"I suppose we'll have to make do," he said. It seemed to him the right thing to say at such a moment.
Unexpectedly, she took him by the arm. When he glanced down at her, he was struck by the look of anguish on her face.
"Do you understand what I'm saying, Joseph?" she said in a low voice. "I don't know if I can come here anymore."
This was something else entirely. Esther was Joseph's only friend (his only human friend, that is) and his sole connection to the outside world. He rarely if ever left his building. To lose her companionship would be terrible for him indeed.
Esther told him about the recent attacks by the variants. She was worried that these incursions were about to be met with retaliation by the townspeople, which would only serve to fuel more acrimony. If this happened, the long-simmering tension between norm and variant would erupt into open warfare, a conflict the fragile town of Prin couldn't possibly sustain. If war began, they would all be at risk . . . even those who chose to live on the outskirts of society.
As she talked, Joseph fetched a cup of water from his desk and started to raise it to his lips.
Esther grabbed his hand.
"Joseph," she said, her voice raised in panic, "how many times have I told you? Don't drink any water but the kind I give you. You'll get sick."
She handled his cup like it was a live snake, holding it far away from her and carrying it to an open window. She was about to fling it outside, when a faint sound from below made them both glance down.
Someone was calling.
The windows of the apartment looked over the buckled remains of an asphalt field. The collapse of the neighboring building, subsequent looting, and the effects of many years of rain, sun, and wild animals had transformed it into a jungle of tall grass growing amid red clay, rubble, broken furniture, rotting wood.
Although they were far above, the two of them took care not to make any sudden movement that might draw attention to themselves. As Joseph peered out, he was surprised to see four figures below, picking their way through the shattered field. From their light-colored robes, they were clearly townspeople. A distance away, four bicycles were propped against a sagging chain-link fence.
"Do you think it's a Gleaning?" Esther asked from beside him.
Joseph shrugged. If it was, they both knew what that would signify, and it was not good.
The Gleaning entailed searching empty houses and stores, sifting through the wreckage of buildings in search of anything viable: weapons, medical supplies, charcoal, bedding, and nails. Everything was brought to the Source, where it was displayed on long tables. Levi's guards tallied the day's take and, depending on its perceived worth, added more water and foodstuffs to the town's portion. It was never very much, compared to what they paid for gasoline.
If the townspeople were Gleaning Joseph's ravaged home, that meant they were forced to reach even deeper into the outlying areas to try to meet the monthly quota. And that could only mean that Prin had been wrung dry, picked clean of anything of value.
Esther observed the people for a few moments. Chewing her fingernail, she turned for the door.
"I don't like this," was all she said.
"But where are you—"
"Don't worry. I'll be fine."
Joseph had no choice but to raise his hand in thanks and farewell. She gave a quick nod; then, without another word, she was gone.
In the lobby, she darted behind a crumbling wall and slipped out the giant gap that once held a large glass window. She slowed as she approached the backyard and hid in the dappled shade provided by some overgrown vines and bleak vegetation.
From there, she could hear faint voices and something she couldn't identify: a hollow twang that echoed in the canyon of the old hotel.
When she peered around the jagged corner, it took her a moment to locate the origin. In the distance, one of the trespassers was holding something, a ball that was dusty brick orange in color.
Now that she could see them clearly, Esther sensed that the four were not intent on anything nefarious; they were not even on a Gleaning. Whoever it was bounced the ball on the ground, once, twice, producing the strange sound. One of the others gestured at something a short distance away. It was a tall pole, with a metal ring attached near the top, with the shredded remains of a net clinging to it. The first one threw the ball at the hoop, but it fell short.
The four laughed. Within moments, they headed back across the lot to where their bicycles awaited. Soon, they were gone.
Then Esther heard something behind her and froze in place.
Someone else was there.
A boy emerged from the towering, ruined mounds and stood where the four had been. By the peculiar way he dressed, Esther could tell he was a stranger. Like her, he chose not to wear the hooded robes that the people of Prin used as protection from the fierce sun. Instead, he wore a long-sleeved blue shirt and dusty jeans, with a shoulder pack that he slung to the ground. A battered, low-brimmed hat obscured his face. He had been watching the group at play, although it was impossible to say why.
He walked to the orange ball. Esther watched as he bent to pick it up.
With one hand, he effortlessly tossed the ball over his head. It landed in the hoop, the ragged net swishing. He turned to go. Before he did, though, he stopped and glanced back.
"You might as well come out," he said. "You ain't fooling anybody, hiding there like that."
His voice echoed amid the broken piles of brick and twisted metal.
From her hiding place, Esther started as if struck. She was stunned to have been spotted, and more than a little rattled. She stood poised, adrenaline coursing through her body, ready to escape should he make a move toward her.
But instead, the stranger only shrugged.
Then with one fluid movement, he mounted his battered bike and left.
## FIVE
UNDER A STREETLAMP ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF PRIN, A BOY IN WHITE robes stood guard.
He shifted uncomfortably. Not accustomed to remaining still in the blazing sun for such a long stretch of time, he was perspiring heavily under his white sheets and headdress and felt more than a little nauseated. He was finding it impossible to keep his focus on the horizon. The heat caused shimmering waves of air to dance across the road, making it look as if hundreds of variants were attacking all at once. In addition, his sunglasses kept sliding down the bridge of his nose.
Early that morning, Rafe had called him together along with a dozen others. Normally, the boy would have been getting ready for work. He had recently started a new Excavation on the eastern side of town and was preparing to spend the day deepening and widening the trench he and the rest of his team, including his pregnant partner, had just begun. Big-boned and quiet, the fifteen-year-old preferred Excavation to the other jobs in town because it was mindless and let you work by yourself.
But Prin, Rafe decided, needed sentries.
"We can't afford another attack," he told the assembled group. "So I'm putting you at each of the main roads that lead into town."
An unspoken question rippled through the crowd. Rafe seemed to anticipate what it was and held up his hands to reassure them.
"Sarah let us down about the weapons. But don't worry, you won't be unarmed. I seen to it."
That was when the boy noticed the crate by Rafe's feet, the one filled with a sorry-looking assortment of bats, corroded metal bars, and splintered table legs.
Now he adjusted his sweaty grip on the hollow steel pipe he was given and tried to imagine what it would feel like to hit someone with it.
He couldn't.
The boy guard rocked back and forth on his heels and he swiveled first to the left and then the right. A drop of sweat trickled into one eye; and he pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead so he could rub it away.
When he lowered them, he sensed a flicker of movement. Nearby, a dust-colored squirrel was watching him from the safety of some underbrush.
"Hey," he said, relieved at the distraction.
The boy set his pipe down, squatted on his haunches, and held out a hand, even though he didn't have anything to offer. He made a soft chucking sound, and the squirrel cocked its head at him, twitching its plumed tail.
The boy was glad no one else was around. Anyone in town would have tried to kill the creature, without a second thought. Unlike humans, animals were unaffected by the poison lurking in rainwater, and fresh meat of any kind was a rare and precious treat. But the sentry secretly liked squirrels and wished he had something to feed it. Maybe he had some forgotten crumbs somewhere in his clothing?
Slowly, in order not to scare the squirrel away, the boy kneeled, hoisting his robes so he could scrabble in his front pockets. One knee grazed the pipe, which rolled into the gutter, unnoticed and for the moment, forgotten.
"Ahh," said the boy at last. His fingers closed on a few gritty crumbs, which he removed and scattered on the ground.
The squirrel leaned forward on one paw, nose twitching, then appeared to make up its mind. Keeping its eyes on the boy, it darted forward in two, three quick movements, seized a morsel, then sat up and began to eat.
The boy eased back on his heels and smiled, satisfied. But after a few moments, the squirrel stopped chewing.
The tiny head jerked up and froze, black eyes staring at some point in the far distance. Then with a flick of its tail, the animal bounded away and vanished in the tall weeds, leaving the rest of the crumbs untouched.
Still on his knees, the young guard frowned, puzzled. He glanced behind him and saw nothing. It made no sense.
But then again, he couldn't hear what was bearing down on him.
Not until it was too late.
Elsewhere, Caleb had reached the broken sign that said WELCOME TO PRIN.
The center of town itself still lay a half mile or so in the distance; he should be there within minutes. The main street appeared to be dotted with buildings, none more than a few stories high.
Caleb realized that the first thing he had to do was get water. He had nothing to trade with, but he was strong and handy; he knew he could work for what he needed.
Then he heard it.
Caleb braked and balanced stock-still, one foot on the ground, straining to identify the sound. As he did, he felt a familiar twisting sensation in his gut and a tingling in his hands and along the back of his neck.
Far away, someone was screaming.
For an instant, Caleb reeled. It was as if he was falling, tumbling backward into an abyss, a sucking vortex from which there was no escape. He gripped his handlebars so tightly his knuckles turned white, and the hot pavement beneath him started to bloom into an obliterating brightness.
Then he heard something else, a thin thread of noise that brought him back to himself. It was the sound of others shouting. Even though he couldn't make out the words, the voices seemed mocking and jubilant.
They sounded like mutants.
Could he be sure? He might be imagining things. He knew he'd been seeing them for weeks now, maybe even months. Since he first left home, he sensed them everywhere, from the corner of his eye, behind him, just around an abandoned car or bend in the road, their obscene, deformed faces silently watching him, jeering, before vanishing into nothingness. Sometimes they appeared in his dreams and when they did, he awoke in a sweat, crying out.
Several weeks ago, he had confronted mutants in the flesh, an unsuspecting group he had happened upon while they were hunting. He didn't hesitate to launch an ambush that left them unconscious and bleeding.
Now he made up his mind. Getting back on his bike, he swerved off the main road and onto a smaller street on his left.
It did not take him long to track the source of the noise. Although the screaming stopped, the other voices grew louder, providing him a rough guide to follow. He rode down one street, which led to a dead end; doubling back, he was able to find a parallel road, which led to another main thoroughfare. By now, he was so close, he was able to hear distinct voices.
"Pretty girl," said someone. This was followed by the sound of others laughing.
With his backpack on, Caleb leaped off his bike and tossed it down in an abandoned yard, its front wheel still spinning. This was evidently once a residential block, with the remains of large two- and three-story houses on both sides nearly hidden by weeds and tall grass. Caleb cut diagonally across the last property and around to its backyard.
The yard led to an overgrown field, which bordered on the cracked parking lot of an abandoned supermarket. Caleb decided to head away from the voices. Realizing he was only one against at least three or four possible enemies, he calculated he would have to use surprise as an additional advantage. He skirted the open expanse and stuck to the perimeter, defined by an immense and straggling hedge.
As Caleb ran, his ears constantly adjusted to the thread of voices, trying to pinpoint their exact location. When he judged he was no more than fifteen feet away, he stopped. Only then did he work his way through the dense foliage, taking care not to disturb the branches around him. He noticed a small gap in the hedge. Through it, he was finally able to make out what was happening.
What he saw astonished and then repulsed him.
Five mutants stood in a loose circle looking up at a streetlamp. A boy hung from it, tilting forward at an unnatural and painful angle. His pitiful arms had been lashed together behind his back, and this rope had been tossed over the beam that extended high up the steel pole and then secured. From where he stood, Caleb could see the boy had been beaten. His face was bruised and puffy, and blood dripped from a corner of his mouth.
But what was most shocking was what the mutants had done to his body.
The boy had been stripped of most of his clothing, and his pale white skin, long unaccustomed to the burning rays of the sun, had been defaced with obscene drawings smeared in red clay. It took Caleb a moment to realize the boy had been turned into a repellent caricature of a girl, a grotesque and unspeakable travesty. A wig of sorts, made from some filthy and stringy object, sat askew on his head. The smell of wet earth was strong. The scarred and tattooed hands of the mutants were all dark, stained red with mud, and their mouths were open in harsh and mocking laughter.
The body hanged heavily, twisting a little in the breeze. At first, Caleb thought he must be dead; but when one of the mutants prodded the victim with a metal pipe, the thin sides heaved and the feet kicked feebly.
"She's pretty, all right," said one of the mutants. The rest laughed again, and one of them uttered an obscenity.
But Caleb no longer heard what they were saying. He was reaching into his backpack, searching for his weapon.
It was one of a kind. He had forged it over time and through much trial and error. Made of wood, metal, and rubber, it was the length of his forearm and had a crude wheel at the center, held firm on an axis. He kept it loaded: the six rods that fanned out from the wheel were each tipped with a shallow cup that held a jagged rock the size of a hen's egg. A taut rubber sling kept each rock in place.
It allowed him to shoot six rocks in as many seconds. He had used it once or twice, on his way to Prin. Now he prepared to employ it again.
From his hiding place, Caleb took aim at the nearest mutant, who stood facing away. He gave the wheel a sharp spin and as he did, he snapped each sling, firing off three rocks in quick succession. The first two hit the mutant in the head, and the last in the back of the neck. His knees buckled and he slumped to the ground.
As he calculated, the element of surprise had given Caleb a small but critical advantage. In the confused moment that it took the other mutants to register what had happened, he had time to take aim at his second target. He again set the wheel into swift motion and deployed his last three projectiles. While this mutant raised a hand at the last second to protect himself, it didn't matter: The rocks came too fast, all three striking his head, and he too was knocked unconscious.
Caleb was scrambling in his backpack, trying to reload, when one of the remaining mutants spied him through the dense undergrowth. She gave an angry hiss, like an animal. Then she pointed at Caleb, her mouth open in a shriek of fury like a hawk, some bird of prey, and at that, all three mutants rushed the hedge.
The first one took a running leap and dived headlong through the dense growth at Caleb. At the impact, his weapon flew from his hands and he was knocked backward and onto the hot pavement of the parking lot, the wiry and muscular mutant on top of him, clawing at his throat, his face, trying to subdue him until the others arrived.
But instead of fighting the momentum, Caleb knew enough to work with it instead. As he curled into a ball and continued to roll backward, he seized the mutant by her scant tunic, pulling in his knees until his feet rested against her stomach. Then he released his grip while violently pushing out with both legs; the mutant was catapulted over his head. A second later, she landed behind him with a sickening crunch.
As Caleb leaped to his feet, another mutant rushed at him with a rock in an upheld fist. Caleb used his elbow to strike his wrist, loosening his grip; he then swiveled, shooting out his leg and driving his heel into the mutant's knee. With a scream as much of surprise as of pain, the mutant pitched forward, off balance. Again, Caleb used momentum, this time to push the mutant farther downward while driving his knee up into his face as hard as he could. There was a satisfying crack of bone, followed by a hot gush of blood.
Caleb turned. His vision blurry, sweat streaming down his face, it took him a moment to see that the fifth mutant, the largest, was running away.
Dimly, he realized that he should let him escape.
Caleb had won this round, and he should tend to the boy who was still hanging from the streetlamp, who clearly needed his help.
But it was as if he was aflame, burning with a righteous fever that would not be satisfied until each mutant was hunted down, one by one, and made to suffer. A bloodlust was upon him. He took off in pursuit and now felt the glad fire in his legs; the mutant, a fast runner with a good head start, glanced back and the shock on his face was obvious. Caleb was nearly upon him.
The mutant swerved suddenly. He had reached a group of commercial buildings and, now frantic, he intended to escape that way instead. He clawed at the nearest wall and began to climb; Caleb leaped to grab his bare foot and only just missed. But any relief the mutant might have felt was short lived, for Caleb also began to scale the wall, moving with relentless speed.
The mutant pulled himself onto the roof; seconds later, Caleb did the same. By then, the mutant had sprinted to the far end and now balanced on the edge of the parapet; he was gauging the distance to the neighboring building. He glanced back with a look of pure panic and as Caleb ran forward, he pinwheeled his arms and took a standing leap.
Caleb didn't hesitate. He was aware that he had no clue as to how far he had to jump and that he was at least five or six floors above the ground; a misstep would be fatal. Yet he no longer cared.
He put on speed, then at the roof's edge, made a blind, running leap. He easily cleared the neighboring parapet and landed hard, instinctively rolling into a sideways somersault to blunt the impact. He came out of the roll without stopping, still running.
The mutant—only halfway across the roof—looked back. He had a setting sun tattooed across his face; beneath it, his expression was one of shock. Yet as much as fear, there was admiration in his voice.
"You have defeated four of my best," he said. Caleb realized that this one was the leader. "Who taught you?" he called, panting.
"I taught myself," Caleb said. The hatred and contempt in his voice were terrifying.
The mutant nodded, impressed despite himself. He was cornered now; there was nowhere to run, no other buildings nearby. But as Caleb stepped forward, the mutant hesitated for only a second.
Then he jumped off the roof.
Caleb ran to where he was standing and looked down. The mutant was lucky that the alley was strewn with crates and boxes; a pile of cardboard had broken his fall. Still, Caleb was satisfied to see him limping badly as he escaped down the alley and out of sight.
It was a team of Harvesters who first saw him.
A stranger walked down the main road that led into town. The townspeople viewed newcomers with suspicion, for supplies were scarce enough without interlopers looking for more. This one pushed a battered bicycle, across which was sprawled a body, legs and arms dangling. A dirty white sheet was partly draped around it and already, dark red patches—blood? clay?—were seeping through.
Caleb was bringing the brutalized guard back to Prin.
The Harvesters slowed their own bicycles and came to a stop.
"Mutants?" one of them asked, and Caleb nodded.
The Harvesters exchanged glances as one by one, they recognized the victim. A boy gave an involuntary cry, his eyes round with shock.
"Trey?" he said in a hoarse whisper. "Is he—"
"He's still breathing," said Caleb. "Barely."
The four dismounted and fell in line behind Caleb. There was no need to ask the details; everyone understood what they needed to know. But without being prompted, one of them handed over her water bottle and another took control of Caleb's bicycle so he had a moment to drink.
By the time they approached the center of town, there were at least two dozen townspeople accompanying them. There was virtually no sound; as newcomers joined in, they were briefly told of what happened in whispers, and then the silence resumed. Without speaking, all had done the unthinkable act of leaving their jobs, and beneath their robes and headdresses and sunglasses, their faces were shocked and somber.
One of them, the guard's partner, walked up front with Caleb. At first glance, Aima seemed stoic, a sturdy, heavily pregnant fifteen-year-old accustomed to unexpected hardship. But beneath her dusty head cloth, her eyes were dark holes in an ashen face. She gripped her unconscious partner's hand, massive in her small one, and stroked it with her thumb, as if trying to will him back to health.
Word had been sent ahead of them and by the time the procession reached Prin, Rafe and a small crowd were outside, waiting. Several townspeople managed to lift the boy and carry him into his storefront home. Once inside, Aima and her friends would wash him and tend to his wounds as best as they knew how.
Rafe was taken aback to see a mere stranger followed by the citizens of Prin. As he stepped forward to greet him, he cleared his throat and attempted to take control.
"Thank you for bringing home one of ours," Rafe said. Even to his own ears, his words sounded falsely hearty.
The stranger said nothing and merely bowed his head in acknowledgment.
"Did you see who done it?" continued Rafe. "Or did he run off before you got there?"
"I seen them," said Caleb.
Rafe nodded. "So it was more than one," he said, then turned to spit in the dust. "That makes Trey an even bigger hero. I bet he gave them a good fight with those weapons. Still, we're glad you come along when you did. Must've helped scare them off."
Rafe's voice shook and again he cleared his throat, to cover it. He was aware that everyone in town was not only staring at him; they were judging him, weighing his words.
It was, after all, his idea that guards be posted that morning, alone, and without any kind of training or backup. In retrospect, even he had to admit that perhaps it was a bad impulse. He had acted rashly, without a real plan. Without weapons, _real_ weapons from the Source that idiot Sarah had promised then failed to deliver, what other choice did he have?
Now Trey's partner stopped as she headed indoors to tend to the boy. In front of Rafe, her eyes blazing, Aima spoke in a low, accusatory voice.
"Trey never fought those mutants and you know it," she said. "He's too gentle. And you sent him there alone. You sent him out there and now he's—" A sudden spasm of anger contorted her face and she pushed past him to get inside.
Rattled, Rafe cleared his throat, hoping no one else had heard. He was now aware that the stranger was speaking.
"—wonder if you could give me some information," Caleb was saying. "I have some private business to look into."
"Of course, of course," said Rafe, with a wave of his hand. He was not listening; too busy worrying what the townspeople were thinking of him, he had already dismissed the stranger to the realm of the unimportant.
But at that moment, there was a new commotion.
A small boy and even smaller girl had just arrived, and they were both talking to whoever would listen. They were breathless and shrill, words tumbling over one another in their haste to speak.
"We seen it—" said the boy.
"We was hiding," said the girl. "We heard a noise so we hid. Then we seen it—"
"There was five of them. He was shooting rocks, like this, one after another—"
"They had Trey tied to a rope. He looked bad, he wasn't moving—"
"—and he beat four. The last one tried to get away . . . but he chased him, too—"
"—five against one. He beat them all. And we seen it—"
"Five against one."
The townspeople murmured, trying to understand. Bewildered, Rafe stepped forward and leaned down to address the two, with a feeling of dread.
"Who beat the mutants?" he said.
At this, the two stopped talking, self-conscious at being the center of attention. But then, they both noticed Caleb, standing to one side. The girl's face flushed and the boy broke into a smile as he raised his finger, pointing through the crowd.
"Him. Him over there. He's who done it."
## SIX
THE CELEBRATION LASTED ALL AFTERNOON.
Rafe had sent out orders, allowing everyone in Prin to take the rest of the day off from work. This was to guarantee maximum attendance—ostensibly, to pay homage and show gratitude to Prin's new hero.
The real reason was that Rafe wanted to ensure the entire town gave him credit for this turn of events.
As a result, the aisles of what had once been a supermarket were crowded. Even Sarah was there, whom Rafe had invited despite his lingering anger, as well as her misfit younger sister, Esther.
The stranger sat next to him, of course, in the seat of honor at the single table in the front of the store.
At first, Caleb was so silent and awkward, Rafe wondered if the reports of his astonishing heroism were true. For a moment, he even considered that he might be simple in the head. But when food and water were placed in front of Caleb—only he was served, as befitted the guest of honor—he started to eat voraciously. Soon, Rafe figured, he was bound to open up. And then they could get down to the real business at hand.
"We wanted to show our appreciation to you," Rafe said after Caleb slowed down. "For once, somebody not only agrees with me about the mutants . . . he ain't scared to follow through."
Caleb cleared his throat. Then he spoke so softly, even Rafe had to cock his head to make out what he was saying.
"Nobody wants to take the fight to the mutants more than me," he said. When his words were conveyed through the room, there was a murmur of approval.
"But this dinner ain't _just_ about appreciation," continued Rafe. "I'd like to make you a proposition." As usual, he, too, lowered his voice, so people leaned forward. "I'd like you to stay on awhile. How about you teach us what you know about fighting and such?"
For the first time, Caleb turned to his host and Rafe was startled by the intensity of his gaze.
"Do you have any _real_ weapons?" Caleb asked in his soft voice. "Any hunting knives? Shotguns?"
Rafe flushed.
"No," he said pointedly. He hoped Sarah was listening. "I'm afraid we got to take on the mutants without those. But I should add—in exchange, we're willing to put you up and feed you. How does _that_ sound?"
Rafe was smiling, a bit desperately now. Caleb appeared to be thinking. After what seemed an eternity, he gave a slight nod. At this, the room began to buzz with excitement.
"But I have conditions," he said, and everyone fell silent.
This time, he looked up, addressing the entire room. "If any mutants come near town, we will attack them, and attack them hard. Any survivors will be imprisoned. There can be no contact of any kind between townspeople and mutants; if anyone is caught socializing with a mutant, they will also be imprisoned."
Now the silence was broken. Slowly, a hum of excitement in the room built to a ragged crescendo of approval. One by one, the people of Prin started to cheer, thump the floor, and bang on the metal shelves, whistling loudly. After a while, the place was utter bedlam.
Uneasily, Rafe watched this. He stood and quickly put his arm around Caleb, making sure to share in the applause.
Only one guest was not celebrating.
The person had been standing alone by the front door and now, quietly, slipped outside into the early evening while no one else was paying any attention.
It was late when Caleb staggered out onto the main street. He was full to bursting, more sated than he had been in years.
He was also exhausted, with a heavy bone-weariness. After months of hard travel, he had reached his destination, and he had been welcomed. A good night's sleep under a roof would prepare him for what he had to do.
Caleb turned onto the deserted street where he had left his bicycle, chained to a rusted parking meter. Then he froze.
Somebody was kneeling next to his bike.
Even from the back, Caleb could tell it was a young boy, small and slight, wearing a red sweatshirt with the hood drawn around his head. Gloves on his hands, he was slashing at the back tire with some instrument.
Caleb tackled the boy from behind. Putting him in a chokehold, he dragged him away from the bike. The vandal was struggling, flailing with his free hand—he was striking out with his weapon, an ugly piece of broken glass—but Caleb was able to shake it loose, then kick it away with his boot.
The two struggled in near silence—Caleb trying to subdue the boy, who continued to fight wildly, despite the obvious difference in size and strength. Finally, the smaller one managed to twist his head into the crook of Caleb's arm while seizing his thumb and yanking backward; with a cry of pain, Caleb loosened his grip and the other slithered out of his grasp, his hood ripping. The two faced each other, the boy still choking for breath, massaging his throat.
Only it wasn't a boy. It was a girl.
The girl who had been spying on him near the hoop on the pole, behind the building.
And she looked furious.
In truth, Esther was angriest with herself: annoyed that she was inattentive enough to get caught before she could even begin her task, much less finish it. She cursed herself and shot a quick glance at the piece of glass, lying a few feet away. However, the stranger caught her look and made it there first. He brought his heel down on it, smashing it with a dull crunch.
He had been staring at Esther the whole time with an unreadable expression. This, more than the fact that he had nearly strangled her, made her deeply uncomfortable.
"I seen you before," he said. "Behind that building on the edge of town?"
She returned the stare; then nodded defiantly.
"What were you doing?" he asked, indicating his bicycle.
"What do you think?" Her tone was derisive.
The stranger nodded, as if in agreement. "Why?"
He didn't sound angry or sarcastic. He asked as if he was curious about her reasons.
Esther started to reply, then stopped, confused. She had never been asked to explain herself before and now found it difficult to find the exact words.
"To stop you," was all she could say.
The stranger was kneeling, inspecting his tires for any damage. At the sight, Esther flushed with a familiar surge of resentment. Like her sister, like most of the others in town, he was ignoring her, she assumed, because she was too childish and emotional to be worthy of his attention.
But she was wrong.
"So you heard what I said in there?" He did not look at her, but seemed as if he was addressing the bicycle.
As Esther hesitated, he glanced up. She nodded.
"And I take it you didn't like any of it?"
Her face flushed with anger.
"The variants got enough troubles without you giving them more," she muttered.
The rays of the setting sun hit his face, throwing its angles into deep relief and turning his eyes into live coals. In an instant, he looked older than anyone on earth, older than anyone could possibly grow to be.
"Variants," he said.
He nearly spit the word, and Esther was unnerved by the depth of loathing that lay beneath it.
"Why do you hate them so much?" she asked. It was an honest question, more bewildered than angry. "My best friend is one and she's a good person. How can you hate someone you don't even know?"
The boy seemed taken aback by her question. _Had anyone ever asked him before?_ Esther wondered. Then he spoke as openly as she had.
"I had a partner and baby son," he said. "In a town a ways from here. One morning, I was out foraging for supplies. Mutants broke in. They killed my partner, Miri, cut her up so bad I couldn't recognize her. They burned our place to the ground. And they took our son. Kai."
Protests bubbled up in Esther's throat. Before she could speak, he continued.
"One got left behind," he said. "He was badly burned, and the others just ran away. I beat him but he couldn't tell me much. I found an empty can of accelerant, the stuff that makes a fire burn faster. Able Accelerant, that was the name. The mutant said they got it around these parts, that's all he knew. That was the last thing he said."
The last rays of sun had turned the sky as red as blood.
"That's why it's no good trying to stop me," he said. He spoke as if he had no choice. And yet, he seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for a response.
_Did he want her to stop him?_ Esther wondered. _To talk him out of it?_ For a moment she thought she had a glimpse of who he really was beneath his hatred and anger. In his own way, maybe he was as hurt and isolated as she was.
Before she could reply, the stranger mounted his bicycle and disappeared into the night.
Watching him go, Esther felt torn. His story must be true. The ghastly murder of his partner and the abduction of his child: it would be impossible to invent such horror. His pain and grief were as searing as a fresh wound, and part of her wanted to run after him, to reach out to him somehow, and comfort him.
At the same time, she believed he must have been mistaken. Obviously someone else had destroyed his family and stolen his son; some unknown variety of human monster and not the variants. The variants had no reason to kill and destroy. They may have faced difficulties and hardships, but they were better than the others because they did not covet. They did not need anything from anyone. It couldn't have been them.
Yet why would the stranger lie? His words had stirred confusion that she found hard to admit, even to herself. He had made her face the one question she had never asked herself, despite the mounting violence . . .
_Why were the variants attacking Prin?_
Esther heard a sound behind her and turned to see that the last of the townspeople were leaving the supermarket. Compared to the heavy spirits earlier in the afternoon, the mood now seemed lighthearted, even festive. Looking at the smiling, chattering faces of her neighbors, Esther felt sick. She realized with a fresh shock what impact the stranger's words would have on life in Prin.
_All mutants will be attacked on sight, and attacked hard._
_Any survivors will be imprisoned._
_Anyone caught socializing with mutants will also be imprisoned._
For a moment, Esther felt dizzy. Then she gathered herself and made up her mind. No matter what doubts the stranger had instilled in her, there were more pressing matters at hand. She must warn Skar, before she came to town as usual. She had to save her friend.
But how?
It was late at night. What was more, the variants lived many miles away to the north, in the mountainous region. Esther owned no bicycle and to walk there would take more than a day.
She wheeled around, desperate.
Several people were walking toward her, indistinguishable in their white robes. Yet she recognized one of the voices.
"Where are you going?" Eli called. He sounded so jovial.
She couldn't respond. Even if she could trust him, which she couldn't, she had no way to put into words how she felt. But it did not matter, for he was not really waiting for her reply.
"Were you at the meeting?" He was as excited as a little boy. Caleb's words had given him hope and now, grotesquely, he wanted to share that hope with her.
In an instant, Esther realized what she must do. It would again require manipulating Eli, playing off his interest in her. She had done so before, when she had appealed to him wordlessly and he had understood, leading the rest of the Harvesting team away. She felt a twinge of guilt and also wondered, fleetingly, when she would have to repay the growing list of favors he had done for her.
She would worry about all that later.
"Can I borrow your bicycle?" she asked. "Please?"
Esther leaned over the handlebars, riding swiftly.
On the outskirts of Prin, she passed mountains of rubble that had once been restaurants, a shopping center, a block of offices. Behind her, the floodlights of the Source emitted a soft glow that lingered for what seemed like miles. But soon it was dark, and then darker still. Esther had only the moon and stars to light her way.
She rode along what had once been another highway, steering around abandoned cars and trucks, sodden piles of leaves and old clothing, crumpled road signs that dangled overhead from bent steel poles. Several times, she was forced to dismount and walk her bicycle around gaping crevices where the road had sheared away. Occasionally, she heard the mysterious cries of unseen animals and noticed flittering shapes that darted through the inky air. Once, a hulking form lumbered across the road ahead of her. But they did not slow her down.
Esther's mind was whirling.
_She had to warn Skar. She would need to warn all of the variants of the stranger's arrival and the harsh new laws now in effect. For their safety, they all needed to steer clear of Prin._
_But would they believe her? They might accuse her of being a spy, or being deliberately sent with false rumors._
After several hours, Esther paused by the side of the road to get her bearings. To one side, visible through the trees, glittered the shoreline of what used to be a vast lake. A good portion of it had dried up, exposing the parched land underneath, the skeletons of fish and birds it had digested, the occasional fiberglass cooler or hamper, destroyed. The rest of the lake was covered with a black, oozing substance as thick as a tarp and as shiny as glass. In the distance she saw a cluster of foothills surrounding a single tall peak. This was her destination.
It was nearly dawn.
Esther had been traveling for hours now and each downward stroke of the pedal was agony; her entire body trembled with exhaustion. Yet she was encouraged by the fact that although the hardest terrain was ahead, she was nearly there.
Esther glided up the exit ramp off the highway to a lesser road, and then another after that. She had only been this way once before, and that was several years ago. As a result, she made a few wrong turns.
Eventually, however, she found what she was looking for. Esther turned off the paved surface and onto a rough dirt trail that cut through the densely forested mountainside. It was steep and rocky; after several minutes, she was forced to dismount and proceed on foot, pushing the bicycle by its handlebars. She reached a withered tree with a white mark upon it. There she turned. The trail wound a bit more until it ended at a clearing, carved out of a plateau.
This was where the variants lived.
Esther had not planned to arrive at dawn, but she realized it was a fortunate coincidence. Early day was hunting time for the tribe, and the camp seemed deserted. If Skar was around, they would be able to talk in private.
From her hiding place, she softly gave their secret whistle and waited. Within moments, someone emerged from one of the many shacks grouped across the clearing. It was Skar, who glanced around, clearly puzzled. Then she noticed Esther.
Surprised yet delighted to see her, Skar ran to her friend and gave her a hug. She smiled, her parted lips revealing her little teeth.
"Esther!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe it's you! Why are you here?"
But in her haste to warn her friend and tell her all she knew, Esther had paid scant attention to her surroundings. Now, she was aware that something had changed. She stopped talking and stood still, gazing around.
When she was here before, it had only been a brief visit. At the time, she was met with suspicion by the few variants Skar introduced her to, and so she didn't stay long. Yet she remembered what it looked like. There were makeshift shacks made of animal skins, salvaged planks, and saplings. In the center of the clearing were smoking vestiges of stick fires. Bones and other uneaten bits of animals had been strewn about, no longer recognizable.
But now, while the shacks were still there, there were no fires. Instead, Esther noticed what had taken their place.
There were large cardboard crates piled by each tent, each with crisp black lettering that Esther had trouble reading. As she looked around, her unbelieving eyes picked up other details, items that did not belong here and therefore made no sense: a clothesline pinned with dozens of shirts, pants, and dresses in bright colors and sturdy fabric. New shoes—sneakers, boots, sandals—lined up outside each door. Shiny kettles and cooking pots of all sizes. And under a canopy made from a rubberized tarp was a giant pyramid of food: oversize packages of dried beans, sacks of flour, plastic gallon jugs of water.
"What?" said Skar, puzzled. "What's wrong?"
Esther couldn't speak. Instead, she pointed to the food, the clothing, the crates.
"What—what is all this?" she said.
"This?" Skar turned and looked. Then she said, innocently, "It's food! You know, and other stuff!"
Esther looked closely at her friend now. At the base of Skar's ears and hanging around her tattooed throat and wrists were new and shiny pieces of jewelry, colorful stones and bright metals. She had never seen Skar—or any variant—adorn herself like this.
"And where did you get _this_?" she said, flicking at the bangles.
Skar touched her ears and throat, growing self-conscious and her smile less confident. "Well . . . from the Source. Like the rest of it." She gestured at the boxes as if in confused apology.
Esther nodded, very slowly.
Her mind was whirling. What did this connection, this alliance mean? The variants did not, of course, Harvest gasoline, nor was there much left to collect even if they did. So what had the variants exchanged with Levi for this massive payment of goods? What had he wanted from them? What had they done to earn it?
The sun was higher in the morning sky; the heat began to beat down. Esther had forgotten to wear her sunglasses and was forced to hold up a hand, to protect her sight. Soon, she had to shut her eyes.
All she could see was Caleb's face.
## PART TWO
## SEVEN
ALTHOUGH IT WAS MORNING, THE SUN BURNED WHITE HOT IN THE DIRTY yellow sky. Yet inside the Source, it was perpetual twilight, dark and cool.
To Slayd, the interior of the gigantic white building always felt like a cave . . . and he did not care for caves at all. They were damp, unwholesome places, dappled with pockets of darkness that harbored all that was unnatural, possibly deadly, and to him, disgusting. In caves, he had seen oversize spiders, patches of mottled mold growing on wet rock, snakes with pinprick eyes and pale skin, and mice that fluttered through the air with leathery wings. His skin crawled at the thought.
In many ways, Slayd felt the same way about Levi.
Although technically a norm, Levi resembled no one the variant leader had ever seen before. He was more a cave-dwelling animal than an actual human, with his black eyes, his dandified black clothing, and silver jewelry. His skin was so pale, it seemed to glow in the gloom, and it emitted a sharp and musky smell that turned Slayd's stomach.
More disturbing, Levi's skin was soft; even his bones seemed soft, revoltingly so. It was almost more than the variant could bear just to look at him, much less grasp his hand in greeting.
The two had been sitting across from one another in Levi's office, a large, trembling room with wire walls that the boy called a "freight elevator." A single electric light overhead threw deep shadows into the surrounding cavernous space. Perhaps because Slayd was the one to request this meeting, Levi kept the variant leader waiting for nearly an hour and now seated him on a smaller, inferior chair that was dwarfed by the massive desk separating them. Still, Levi continued to delay, appearing to examine some papers on his desk, a white cloth pressed to his mouth.
Slayd was keenly aware of these deliberate slights. Yet rather than be angered by such rudeness, he knew enough to hold his temper and stay watchful instead. It was clear that Levi was doing it on purpose, to trigger some sort of emotional response from him, throw him off balance. He wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
Yet even though he sat in silence, Slayd had already made a mental note of the precise location of the five guards that surrounded them. Should the situation deteriorate, he had calculated the quickest way to escape.
When Levi finally looked up, Slayd wasted no time and got to the point.
"I'm here to request the rest of our payment," he said. "For the latest action. The one with the smaller band."
"I heard about it," Levi said. His voice was polite, almost bland.
"We've been waiting for another shipment," said Slayd, his tone as even as that of his host. Whatever game Levi was playing, the variant was more than prepared to meet him. "What arrived was less than we agreed to."
"What you did wasn't worth the full payment," Levi replied.
He was finding it difficult to look at the mutant leader. As always, Levi found everything about Slayd—his deformed features, his scarred and tattooed skin, his small and pointed teeth—freakish and repellent. He couldn't bear his sexless quality. Slayd called himself male, yet looked no different from the so-called females of his tribe: hairless, smooth-faced, and slight of build. Worst of all was his smell, which was sharp and acrid like an animal, with a tendency to linger long after he had gone. Once again, Levi pressed the cologne-sprinkled handkerchief to his face and inhaled.
Slayd was nodding. Then he bowed his head and spread his hands in an obsequious manner that Levi did not believe for an instant. "We did as you requested," he said. "We escalated the violence."
"I'm not talking about what I requested," replied Levi. He realized his tone was harsher than he intended, revealing too much; he softened it. "I'm talking about the stranger. I understand he defeated you and four of your best single-handed."
"Ah," said the mutant leader. Again, his air of polite apology seemed false to Levi. "But we did not know he was coming."
At this, a slight frown creased Levi's forehead. "Even so, I'm surprised," he said. "Five against one? I can't imagine that should be so hard to handle."
Slayd shrugged. "My people and I had specific instructions, and those instructions did not include taking on another. Especially one who turned out to be so skilled a warrior."
"But everyone knows you people are the best fighters," said Levi, persisting.
Again, Slayd shrugged. "That may be," he said. "All I can suggest is that perhaps my people might work harder in the future if they were paid the full amount. And maybe even a bit more."
Levi now rocked back in his chair, silent.
The variant watched him, making sure his expression gave nothing away. If Levi was changing the terms of their agreement, then he would counter and change them too. There was, he thought, no harm trying.
"Well," said Levi after a moment. "That's certainly a conversation we could have further down the line."
Slayd frowned, annoyed by this evasion. "We are—" he began, but Levi cut him off.
"But the truth is, I'd only consider increasing your pay if you people managed to do a better job," he said.
Slayd felt his face flush with annoyance.
"I told you, we did everything that was asked," he said, his control slipping. "Two of my people were seriously injured as a result. If you pay us more goods, perhaps it would _begin_ to make up for the loss to my tribe. It would certainly not cover what we have lost in goodwill with the people of Prin by attacking them, the reasons for which you never once explained. That alone is worth an increase."
Levi didn't even look at Slayd now, finding that his patience was wearing thin. _Explain?_ he thought, with disbelief. _It would be like justifying yourself to a dog._ Instead, he ignored the remark.
"I am not only talking about the _recent_ attack," said Levi. "It's everything. What about that other job from before? The job I asked you to do far from Prin?"
But Slayd was shaking his head. "Why do you mention that now? We brought you the child," he said. "We fulfilled our end of the deal. What else was required?"
"You were supposed to kill _both_ parents," replied Levi. "You told me the father survived. I'm surprised, Slayd. I thought you people were capable of handling such a simple job."
The variant leader smirked.
"We are," he replied. "But it was not my people who carried it out."
"I don't understand," said Levi.
Now Slayd was grinning, relishing the look of confusion on the norm's face. "It was another tribe. They made the mistake. Not my people."
"But—" began Levi, and this time, he was interrupted by the variant.
"I hired them," Slayd said. This time, he did not bother to hide not only his triumph, but also his anger—anger at Levi's rudeness, his condescension, and presumed superiority. "It was too far for my people, too much trouble. Not worth what you offered."
"And you paid these others . . . out of the fee I paid you?" said Levi, his voice rising. He, too, had dropped the veneer of politeness, the pretense of civilization; he was openly furious. "You dare to attempt profiting from the jobs I give you by hiring others?"
"Profit?" The mutant seemed to spit out the word. "When my people are starving? You dare to call that a profit?"
Incensed, Levi was about to rise and call for his guards. But with the remarkable self-restraint that had served him for so many years, he instead remained motionless.
Levi realized he was foolish to respond emotionally to what was a business disagreement. True, any norm alive would be angered by the effrontery of the savage in front of him. Such arrogance was unacceptable and at some point, Levi would make certain to pay it back, harshly and many times over.
But not quite yet.
As much as it pained him to admit it, Levi still needed the mutant leader. Since the Source had started running out of food and water, Slayd and his tribe had been critical in helping Levi carry out his plan. He had to drive the people out of Prin. If the residents believed they were making the decision to leave themselves, it would lead to a cleaner and simpler transition than if he were to try using force. With control over an endless supply of water, Levi would then be sole owner and occupant of the town. All he needed was for Sarah to bring him the missing book, which would tell him exactly where to dig. Until she did, Levi would have to endure Slayd's insolence.
Levi was aware that Slayd was watching him and so he forced himself to smile. Then he chuckled, as if enjoying the punchline to a good joke. At this, the mutant visibly relaxed, and in doing so, missed the involuntary twitch in the norm's jaw.
"Of course," Levi said, "perhaps I should be taking all of this as a compliment. You seem to have picked up a few of my tricks, Slayd. Why shouldn't you hire others to do your dirty work for you?"
Slayd inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Any comparison to you is a compliment we do not deserve," he murmured. "But as to the subject of our payment. May we possibly assume . . . ?"
Levi nodded. "The balance will be paid in full as soon as you leave. With an extra half case of water thrown in."
He noticed with distaste that even though the mutant leader kept his gaze lowered, he couldn't control his jubilation. Slayd was grinning openly. Now he got to his feet, his hand extended, but Levi remained where he was, his elbows propped up on his desk and his fingers steepled.
"All of this is on one condition," Levi said. "Will you and your people be ready for another excursion soon?"
"Certainly," said Slayd. "Can we also assume . . . ?"
"I will raise the fee," said Levi after a moment. "One half case of clothing, one of grain, and one of water." He watched as a look of stunned happiness crossed the mutant's animal face. The effect was both grotesque and comical. "But this one must be special," Levi added. "I want you to use something different than the usual clubs and stones. This attack needs to be much more . . ." He traced something ineffable in the air with his pale hand and let the sentence hang, unfinished. "Do you understand what I mean?"
The mutant smiled. Then the two shook hands.
Slayd was escorted to the door. He was given back his knife, his bicycle. After checking to see that no norms were nearby, he pedaled back toward the variant camp miles away. Jubilant at the thought of the extra payment, he relished his victory over the clever and arrogant Levi. It would make for a good story to tell to the village elders that night, he thought.
Back at the Source, no one saw him go. Not even Levi watched from his hidden window.
He was too busy calculating his costs. True, he did not anticipate the bonus he had just promised to Slayd. Even so, in the long run, the terror he had purchased with a handshake would be a bargain even if it were two or three times the price paid. For fear was like fire, a powerful force that could sweep unchecked through a town and drive everything living from its path.
And if all worked out as planned, that was exactly what was going to happen.
The plume of smoke rose almost imperceptibly in the midday sky. Without even looking, Esther knew it was there. But instead, she pedaled harder and tried to keep her eyes trained on Sarah, who rode her purple bicycle in front of her.
That morning, using a combination of guilt and begging, her sister had managed to talk Esther into taking part in the Harvesting they had both been assigned to. She even managed to find a bicycle for her. Resentful at having to work at all, Esther was nevertheless aware that she was down to her last warning, and any more work violations would result in an automatic Shunning.
"Hurry up," Sarah called over her shoulder, from far ahead. Her voice was anxious. "You're going too slow."
But Esther found it difficult to ignore the signals, which had been coming all day. They had begun early in the morning and at least in Esther's eyes, had become more and more insistent, reproachful. Helplessly, she peeked upward. Although she knew it was impossible, she was sure she could smell the far-off smoke, the pervasive scent of damp and rotted pine branches tossed onto a fire.
It smelled like a rebuke.
There had never been a day when Esther had not scanned the horizon for such signs. Long before the recent tensions in town and the growing ugliness between townspeople and variants, the secret code was how she and Skar had always communicated.
The signals were few and simple, meant to convey only the most basic and crucial information:
_Meet me now. I am returning to my home. All is well. I need to speak with you. The situation is urgent._
But Esther's surprise visit to the variant camp had changed how she felt about her friend. She did not know why. All morning, she had been struggling to sort her jumbled thoughts about seeing the goods from the Source and make sense of her churning emotions.
Skar had little to say when pressed for information. She had always been this way, the kind of person who bent to authority and accepted what was going on around her without doubt or question. Unable to give any satisfactory answers to Esther's questions, she instead tried to placate her friend and change the subject, which only made Esther angrier. It was the first time the two girls had ever quarreled or parted on bad terms.
Even now, Esther couldn't stop thinking about it.
By now, she had lagged far behind the others, despite Sarah's best efforts to shepherd her. She bicycled hard and soon caught up with the group. Besides her sister and herself, there were three others on the Harvesting team, all girls a year or so older than Esther. One of the girls, thin and haughty, was named Rhea; she was the team's Supervisor. When Esther joined them, panting, Rhea glanced at the others and raised an eyebrow, and everyone laughed.
Sarah, blushing furiously, gestured at Esther to stand near her.
"Where were you?" she hissed. Esther only shrugged.
Today's destination appeared to be what was once a large field that lay to the side of the highway. Over the years, the sun had hardened the land, which was now covered with an intricate network of fissures and cracks. Strange pools of relatively clean, white sand were scattered across the field at intervals. The remains of a large building, once resplendent, sagged in the distance, past a broken sign reading SKYVIEW LINKS. A windowless structure, no more than a large metal shed, stood closer to the highway. Its doors were held fast with chains and heavy locks.
"In here," said Rhea, nodding at the shed.
The shack was most likely a garage, the kind of structure that housed cars, motorcycles, and other gas-filled vehicles. Judging from the heavy scuff marks on the doors and the locks themselves, it was obvious that others had tried here without success. But today, the team had brought a crowbar with them. After repeated efforts by all five, they succeeded in smashing open the locks.
Inside, the team found a row of boxlike vehicles. They were not much bigger than bicycles, only with four wheels, and were clearly meant to carry two passengers on their cracked leather seats. The side of each vehicle contained a rusted metal cap.
Elated, Rhea and her team tried to unscrew the caps in order to get to the gas inside; but the job was harder than they expected. And even once they managed to pry them off, it turned out that the tanks were nearly empty. For all of their time and effort, they collected no more than half a bottle's worth of gas.
Throughout, Esther attempted to participate. She dutifully took her turn with the crowbar, tried to open the tanks, and helped coil away the rubber tubing once the small amount of gas had been Harvested. But her mind was not on it.
"Try to be friendly," Sarah implored her in a whisper. Their work done for now, the team was on a break, sitting in a loose circle in the shade of an abandoned truck in their dusty robes and eating the meager lunch they had brought. The air was heavy with humidity, a sure sign of an oncoming storm. "They're not so bad. Try talking to them." But Esther made a face.
"About what?" she whispered back.
Sarah shook her head hopelessly. Then she turned back to the others and made a great show of listening as she laughed and nodded.
Esther couldn't understand why her sister bothered. It was apparent the three others had little use for Sarah and even less for Esther. Not that she minded; as far as she could tell, their conversation was worthless, less interesting than the droning of bees. One girl boasted about her recipe for wheat porridge. Another described a tattered bedspread stolen from a recent Gleaning and how it matched her one curtain. And then there were the endless, tedious anecdotes about their men, for all three were partnered.
When the gossip turned to partnerings, Rhea pointedly leaned close to the other two girls and whispered. After a moment, the three shared a harsh laugh, glancing sideways at Sarah. The older girl acted as if she was in on the joke, smiling and bobbing her head, even though it was clearly at her expense.
At seventeen, Sarah was an old maid, long past the age of partnering. What made it odd was that she had never attempted to find a partner, despite the fact that over the years, many boys in town had expressed interest in her. Rafe in particular pursued her, to no avail. It seemed as if her sister had been waiting for someone special, Esther thought. But who?
The girls' chatter became faint as Esther tuned it out. In its place, she heard someone else's voice: Caleb's.
In her mind's eye, Esther could see his face, the set of his jawline, the haunted expression in his dark eyes. And although she despised what he had said at the town meeting, she now realized things might not be as simple as she thought. She also remembered how he spoke to her afterward, directly and openly, and how he listened to her, _really_ listened in a way no one ever had before, not even Skar.
The inane drone of the girls' voices cut into her thoughts. Esther was jerked back to reality and with it came the realization: _She didn't want to be here anymore._ She looked up at the sky, where her friend's smoke signals had been. The clouds had thickened and grown darker.
She made up her mind and stood.
"Esther?"
She was already across the small parking lot and hoisting her bicycle by the handlebars when her sister grabbed her by the arm.
"What are you doing?" Sarah whispered. She sounded panicked.
"I have to get out of here," said Esther. But her sister refused to let go.
"Please," she said in a low voice. "Just a few more hours, until the rain passes. I promise, once we're in the shed, I'll keep them away from you. But if you go now, it'll be over for you. I won't be able to save you."
Esther attempted to shake her off. "It's never as bad as you say it's going to be. Shunning's only for people who are sick or for _real_ criminals." She had one foot on a pedal and was trying to take off.
"But that was before. These are Levi's new rules. And you know there's no way that Rhea isn't going to report this. She's been waiting for the opportunity all day."
Esther glanced over at the other girls. They were still sitting where they were, watching her with their mouths open in shock. And it was true that Rhea was staring at her with an appraising look, a faint smile on her face.
"Please, Esther." Although she kept her voice down, Sarah couldn't keep the desperation from her voice. "You're going to get Shunned. And no one will be able to help you."
But Esther had broken free and was pedaling away, as fast as she could. The town was five or six miles away. She would have to hurry before the rain came.
## EIGHT
"HIT ME," CALEB SAID.
He stood in front of a red-haired boy, with one arm extended and relaxed, palm facing out. The boy was a husky fourteen-year-old, stocky and exceptionally strong; he figured it was the reason he was chosen. Eager to prove himself, he tensed up his arm and punched the open hand as hard as he could.
The boy was surprised and then embarrassed to see what little effect it had. The stranger barely registered the blow. He was about to ask for a second chance, but Caleb had moved on to the next person in line, a sturdy girl with close-set eyes.
"Hit me," he said to her.
Seven townspeople were lined up in the large, echoing room that had once been a bank. They had been excused from their various jobs for this first round of training and now stood in the thick heat and humidity of the November day, their arms by their sides, awaiting instruction from the stranger who was going to teach them how to save their town.
The red-haired boy was especially excited to be included in the first group. Like everyone in town, he was familiar with the details of the stranger's victory over the five mutants. He knew of his impressive fighting skills and his strange new weapon, which was capable of firing several rocks in quick succession.
The boy looked forward not only to learning from Caleb firsthand, but maybe even following him into battle. He and his partner had sustained serious damage to their storefront home in the recent mutant attack, their windows smashed and much of their stored goods destroyed. Since then, he had been hungering for revenge. Today, he had come half expecting to be handed his own weapon, given instructions on how to use it, and maybe even led to the mutant camp for some kind of showdown.
But he had been surprised. So far, the lesson was nearly all talk. What's more, most of what the stranger had to say was downright bewildering.
"I can't teach you how to fight," Caleb said at the very beginning. At this, everyone shifted on their feet, glancing at one another and murmuring. "Fighting isn't in your hands or your feet, and it isn't about getting hold of some fancy weapon. Mostly, it's in your head."
The boy with the red hair wiped sweat off his brow as he mulled over these peculiar words.
By now, Caleb had worked his way to the end of the line. Everyone had punched or slapped his hand—some harder than others, some less eagerly, some clumsily. The boy brightened up at this part of the lesson; this was what he had come to do. He assumed Caleb would now get down to business, would talk about the techniques of hitting and fighting and pick out and praise the strongest participants. Maybe he'd even spar with the best student and again, the boy felt his hopes rise.
But once more, he was surprised.
"Fighting isn't a game," Caleb said. "You should only do it because you have no other choice. And you've got to know that your enemies aren't just stronger than you. They're smarter, too."
The boy frowned. He was not quite sure he followed what Caleb was saying. He was also not sure he liked the sound of what he was hearing.
"To win, you've got to keep your mind clear," continued Caleb. "You've got to see the situation as it is and use every advantage you got. But you can't keep a cool head if you put your feelings into your fists."
He turned to the red-haired boy, who was now examining his hands. "For instance," he said, "I could tell by the way you hit that you're impatient and you want to fight." Caleb imitated the boy perfectly, his eager stance, the overly enthusiastic punch. "You want to prove to me and everyone here that you're strong."
There was suppressed laughter down the line and the boy frowned, trying to understand what had been said and if he had just been insulted. But before he could say anything, Caleb had moved on to the next person in line, the girl with the close-set eyes.
"You think this is some kind of game," he said to her. "It's like you don't even think the threat is real." The girl giggled, then blushed, staring at the floor.
Caleb moved to the next person. "The way you hit tells me you're mad, maybe at me," he said to the boy, a hulking sixteen-year-old. "You don't like being told what to do." The boy looked startled; then he glowered at the stranger, his fists clenched.
Caleb continued to work his way down the line. He stopped in front of each person and told each one what he thought he or she was feeling:
_You're scared. You think you know better. You care too much about pleasing others. You're bored._
When he was done, Caleb turned to face everyone, his expression serious. "Think about what I said," he said. "Try to leave your emotions at home. And I'll see you back here tomorrow."
At first, the red-haired boy darkened with anger. But when he thought it over, he was astonished. It was amazing that the stranger could know so much about him by just a single punch to the hand.
By the look on everyone else's face, he knew he was not alone. Feeling a first glimmer of understanding, he stepped forward to speak his mind.
But he was stopped in his tracks.
Without warning, a gust of wind swept through the broken windows that surrounded them, swirling grit and paper across the room. Everyone simultaneously glanced outside.
Overhead, the sky had changed to a deep and unnatural green and purple. Then, it seemed as if all the air was violently sucked out of the room; shards of broken glass rattled in their wooden frames, some snapping off and sailing into the street.
Caleb moved deeper into the room and everyone followed. They stood against the back wall in order to get as far away as possible from the gaping windows and open door.
Even if the red-haired boy were to speak now, no one could hear him. For with a deafening crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning split the darkening sky.
A moment later, rain began to fall: fat drops freely splashed through the broken windows, forming puddles on the marble floor. Outside, the drops marked the dusty ground vividly, faster and faster. They covered the hardened dirt with dark spots before converging and turning into deadly pools of mud and water.
Half an hour later, the storm was still raging. Looking onto a deserted street, Esther watched the steady downpour from the decrepit lobby of Joseph's home, the Gideon Putnam Hotel.
When the first drops had begun to fall, she leaped off her bike and wheeled it into the nearest building, thankful for any shelter at all. Even so, she was aware of the heavy sound of rain as it thrummed on the sidewalk and splashed through the gaping windows and doors, soaking the faded carpet. She moved deeper into the building interior, making certain to avoid the walls, which had begun to weep moisture.
She berated herself again for not thinking, not planning.
It was a stupidly close call. Moments earlier, an unlucky gust of wind could have driven the downpour straight at her, through the broken glass of the front door. She knew all too well what a single raindrop could do if it found its way into your eyes, your mouth, or a scratch on your skin that hadn't healed. First came the bone-crushing fatigue and telltale lesions; then headaches and fever. These were followed by severe stomach pains, vomiting, and delirium.
After that, she was not exactly sure what happened. For no one had ever been allowed to stay in town once the symptoms appeared.
Esther had been on her way to the school, where she knew Caleb was staying, when the storm hit. Now she had to wait until it was totally spent before she dared to continue on her way.
Whenever it rained, the people of Prin pressed close to their windows and watched the storm. They couldn't help it: from the safety of their homes, they found the risk, the presence of death, fascinating.
But not Esther. As usual, she turned her face from it.
That was when she saw Joseph.
Her friend was standing across the lobby, carrying an empty plastic bucket. As ever, he was accompanied by a cat. Both boy and feline stared at the intruder with a look of astonishment.
"Esther," Joseph said.
Esther felt a pang of guilt. So much had happened recently that she hadn't told him. Now she had only run into him by accident. She noticed what he was carrying.
"You're not going to get rainwater with that, are you?" she exclaimed.
"With what?" He looked down at the bucket. "Oh, no, I—"
"Because it can kill you," she said. "Do you remember what I told you? Do you still have any of the water I gave you last time?"
"Yes. Yes. I do."
"Then will you please drink that instead?"
As she watched Joseph first attempt to hide the bucket behind his back and then a column, Esther realized too late that she had spoken in a sharp voice. _I must sound like Sarah,_ she thought. "I'm sorry I shouted," she said, touching him on the arm. He felt thinner than usual, and so she dug deep in her shoulder bag. At the bottom, she found what she was looking for: the lunch she had not eaten at the Harvesting, a container of boiled rice and beans. "Take this."
"Are you sure you want to—"
"Yes. Please."
Smiling his thanks, Joseph received the gift. Then he placed it on the floor in front of the cat, which began to eat.
Esther watched for a moment. "I wish I had more."
Joseph shrugged, then shuffled his feet. "Would you like to come upstairs? We can have a proper visit."
"I can't." Esther spoke with real regret. "Once the rain stops, I've got to see someone. I'm sorry."
She turned to check the progress of the storm and was startled to make out her image reflected back to her in the cracked glass door.
Esther leaned forward and examined herself. She squinted, trying to imagine that she was seeing herself for the first time, as if she was a total stranger.
As if she was someone like Caleb, for example.
Esther had never done this sort of thing before. There was a full-length mirror at home, but she almost never glanced at it. In fact, she associated primping and fussing with Sarah, so much so that not caring about her looks had become not just a matter of pride, but an easy way to irritate her sister. She was amused by how agitated she could make Sarah by something as simple as not combing her hair.
But now that Esther was studying herself, she was rattled by what she saw.
She saw a girl in boy's clothes—jeans and a sweatshirt—that hung off a bony frame; she saw watchful eyes that seemed too large and dark in a thin face. There was a smudge of dirt on her chin, which she tried to rub away with her sleeve. Her hair, dark and unruly, was cut unevenly, at different lengths, and it stuck up on top. Esther frowned and tried to smooth the cowlick down; it wouldn't obey and she gave up.
Then she turned sideways and tried to examine her figure, pulling her sweatshirt close.
It was no good, she realized with a sinking heart. She was simply not appealing, not the way other females in town were. She lacked the curves and softness of some of the girls, the gracefulness of others, even the dainty femininity of her sister.
For a moment, Esther stared at her reflection in the glass and despaired. Then she turned to her friend, who had been watching her with a bemused look on his face.
"Do you think I'm pretty?"
Joseph started, then seemed to consider the question. After a few moments, he looked up. "You're Esther," he replied.
Esther smiled. Although at that moment, she would have given anything, anything at all, to change her looks, she realized that there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn't, after all, change who she was.
She walked over and kissed Joseph on the cheek. He recoiled, as she knew he would, but she didn't care.
At last, the rain started to let up. Esther waited until she was sure it wasn't a false alarm. Then she saw a rainbow—the indisputable sign that the coast would soon be clear—stretch across the sky.
"I'll see you soon," she said.
After a final, vain attempt to make her hair lie in place, she wheeled her bicycle out from the hotel lobby. Her hood drawn around her face, Esther took off through the glistening streets for the school, a half mile away.
There were many shattered windows on the ground floor of the building. It was no trouble for her to reach in, unfasten the latch, and enter.
She made her way down a hallway, lined on both sides with dusty and dented metal lockers that gaped open. She picked her way through trash, mounds of paper, and broken light fixtures. Along the way, she passed empty classrooms, rusted water fountains, and abandoned stairwells.
When she rounded a corner, she noticed something written on the wall, and curious, stopped to examine what it was. Primitive drawings and words, little pictures of hearts with arrows through them, and initials were carved into the plaster. She was able to spell out the words and letters with difficulty:
_mikey + lissa. e.h. + a.t. j-bo and k.k. 4ever._
They made no sense to her.
Caleb sat on the creaky cot in his room. He had been given these accommodations in the school, a dank, gray two-story building, as a reward. When Rafe first showed him the place, he assumed that the stranger would take the largest room, the auditorium, for his lodgings and had it furnished accordingly. By Prin's standards, such a dwelling—with its high ceiling, scuffed wooden floors, and tall windows covered with thick wire mesh—was luxurious, even palatial.
But after living outdoors for so many months, Caleb no longer trusted open spaces. Instead, he thanked Rafe, whom he was beginning to find irritating and overbearing. Then once he was alone, he searched the building until he found a room more to his liking: a classroom off a secondary hallway, with dusty blackboards still attached to the walls and desks and chairs pushed to one side in a jumble. Satisfied with its size and location, Caleb transferred all of the furnishings and supplies Rafe had the townspeople provide.
He thought about those people and his students, as well. He had taken the job for practical reasons only, as a way to stay in town. But he found he liked the teaching more than he expected.
On his rickety bed, Caleb drank from a plastic jug of water. Lowering the bottle, he glanced around and for the first time took in where he was.
The tables that were pushed against the wall were much too low to sit in front of; and the chairs piled on top of them were small as well, perhaps coming up to his knee. He looked up and noticed strange pictures tacked to the wall, faded, mysterious illustrations that were curled from too much humidity and mottled with mildew:
_A white goose in a bonnet read a book to a little boy and girl. A cat walked on its hind legs, wearing green boots. Three bears confronted a small girl with yellow hair._
Around the wall, close to the ceiling, were the remnants of a long strip of paper. Caleb could barely read, but he realized with a shock that the torn banner was printed with the letters of the alphabet.
This was a room for little children.
Children like Kai. Soft, sweet Kai, with his mother's serious eyes and his sudden smile.
His son.
The images seemed to reproach him, a silent reminder not to forget why he was there. Caleb squeezed his eyes shut. Then he opened them again.
Someone was in the hall.
Caleb seized his backpack, hanging over a chair. He took out a sap, a small, heavily weighted leather pouch, which he hid in his hand.
But he realized he would not need it.
A girl in a red hooded sweatshirt stood in the doorway.
It was the girl he had first seen at the ball court, the angry one who had tried to slash his tires. The pretty one, he thought now, pretty if you looked at her the right way.
"Hey," she said. She was appalled to find she was blushing and she tried to cover it by scowling. "I'm Esther."
"I'm Caleb," he said. "What can I do for you?"
Esther couldn't meet his eyes, and so she plowed ahead, staring at the floor.
"I came to . . . I wanted to say I'm sorry."
"Uh-huh," he said. "What for?"
"For . . ." she started, then trailed off. Apologizing didn't come easy to her and this was harder than she thought. "Because I messed up your tire."
Caleb considered her words.
"You didn't really mess it up," he said.
A smile flickered across her face and at last she raised her eyes. "I would have, if I had more time."
Now it was Caleb's turn to smile. "I bet," he said.
Esther cleared her throat. "And . . . I'm sorry about your family."
Caleb's face grew serious and he nodded.
That was all Esther came to say. It felt right to apologize for what she did and to express her sympathy. After that, there was no real reason to stay; yet for some reason, she couldn't break away. She lingered for a moment, hoping Caleb would speak, but he was as silent as she was. So she started to go.
"Hey?" he said.
Esther turned back.
Caleb had his hands in his pockets and averted his gaze; she was surprised to see that he was so ill at ease.
"You think it's safe around here?" he finally asked. He indicated his black bicycle, leaning against a wall. "I'd like to keep that outside, case I need to get somewhere in a hurry. Think that'd be okay?"
"Sure," Esther said. "If you want, we could put it out back. That way, nobody would see it from the street."
Together, they headed farther into the school, Caleb pushing his bicycle next to him and Esther navigating. It was not just one building but a series of them and she had never been inside before. Still, her sense of direction was good, and she felt they were heading the right way.
As they walked side by side, the two talked. Esther was especially shy at first. The only person she really spoke to was Skar, and they had been friends for many years. She found it was easier when they weren't looking at each other. Mostly, they took turns asking questions, listening as the other spoke: about growing up, their homes and family, and the people they knew.
Soon Esther was so caught up in the conversation, she stopped paying attention to where they were and began choosing turns and stairways without thinking. When they reached the end of a large hallway, she frowned. She spun around, confused, as she tried to get her bearings.
"What's wrong?" Caleb asked.
Esther didn't answer at first. "I don't know how we got here," she said. She pointed down the echoing corridor, which seemed as long and broad as a highway. "I think we're supposed to be down at that end."
Caleb smiled. "That's easy," he said. He mounted his bicycle in one fluid movement. "Hop on."
When she realized what he was proposing, Esther hesitated. Then she met his eyes and made up her mind.
His back wheels didn't have the standing pegs the variants used, so Esther perched on the seat. She held onto Caleb, who pedaled standing up. When they reached the far end of the hall, Esther saw she had been right; there was a door that led to a courtyard in back. Caleb slowed, then stopped. He took her hand and helped her off the bike.
"Thanks," she said. "That was fun." She held the door open for Caleb, and he wheeled his bicycle through and rested it against the brick wall. Esther realized it was a word she had only ever used with Skar: _fun_.
As the two returned to the classroom, Caleb seemed thoughtful.
"Who's Levi?" he said. "And what's the Source? I've heard people talk about them, but not so as I could understand."
Esther couldn't imagine anyone not knowing, but she explained as best she could. Caleb listened, squinting as he took it in.
"They got more than food and water in there?" he asked, after she was done.
"What?"
"At the Source. He's got all kinds of stuff, right?"
Esther shrugged. "I guess."
"Do they ever trade with anyone else?"
"Like who?"
"Mutants. Because I'm looking for something. Something you start fires with."
Esther was puzzled. Then she remembered his recent tragedy. The mysterious fire. The death of his partner and the kidnapping of his son.
And before she was aware what she was doing, Esther found herself opening up even more to Caleb. She told him what she'd found when she visited the variants' camp—that Levi was supplying them with goods. What they were doing in exchange for this payment, she had no clue. And she realized too late that she didn't know what Caleb would do with this information.
Caleb listened, gazing downward without speaking. Then he looked up.
"How do you get in the Source?" he asked.
"I don't know," Esther said. "I never been inside."
"You think I could?"
"Depends," she replied. "Why are you asking me?"
"Because. You know everything else."
Esther glanced up at him. She wasn't sure if he was teasing or if he valued her opinion. _Maybe both_ , she thought. _Because he was smiling._
"I can't answer that," she said. "But I think you'll end up doing what you want, anyway."
"Probably so," he said. Just then, Caleb's attention was directed to the window. He walked over and peered out. Breathing onto the filthy glass, he rubbed a circle with his elbow. Although the rain had stopped, a form covered in shiny black clothing—a hooded slicker and galoshes—was striding across the street. Whoever it was headed toward the school.
"That's one of Levi's boys," Esther said, from behind him.
"How do you know?" he said.
"No one else has gear like that."
Caleb thought about it. "Better hide someplace."
"Why?"
Caleb looked at her. "You know how to fight?"
"Oh," she said. "Well, I—"
"Wait there."
There was a closet in the back of the room. Esther opened the door and disappeared inside.
The stranger had already entered the room. It was a boy, probably in his mid-teens. His ensemble gave him a bizarre, animal-like quality, as if he was something not completely human.
"Levi wants to see you," he said.
"I'm Caleb. What's your name?"
The boy in black didn't answer; he cocked his head, confused.
"You got to come to the Source," he said.
"Why?" Caleb asked.
The visitor paused again. It was as if he had never been asked anything like this before. He seemed to be blinking stupidly behind his hood.
"Come tonight, before the sun goes down," he said.
"What if it rains again?"
But the boy had turned and, seemingly unnerved, was tramping out.
Watching him go, Caleb shook his head, amused. "Well," he said. "Looks like I'm going to the Source, after all."
"I guess so." Esther emerged from her hiding place. She was smiling, too. Then her expression grew serious. "But if you go, be careful."
The emotion in her voice surprised both of them. Before he could respond, she spoke again. "Maybe I'll see you around. I'm usually in the fields, near the tracks."
Then Esther turned and ran from the room and down the hall. In no time, she was at the front door of the building.
But before she could leave, she heard Caleb calling after her:
"See you, Esther."
Rather than bring a sense of coolness, all the rain had done was make the late afternoon heat feel more oppressive. The air was now thick and muggy and even more difficult to breathe.
Caleb shifted on his feet. He had been waiting for over an hour outside the Source, standing on the steaming asphalt of the parking lot. There was not much to look at. Weeds and tall grass grew freely in the cracked surface. Beneath his feet and stretching as far as the eye could see were fading parallel lines, painted in white. A few featured remnants of a crude drawing: a stick figure seated on a half-circle.
Caleb pushed back his hat and raised his sunglasses to wipe his face; he was perspiring freely. He was more than aware that he was being made to wait on purpose; it was an obvious ploy, Levi's way of establishing the balance of power between them before the two had even met. Yet it didn't succeed in making Caleb feel intimidated. It only made him impatient.
He was aware that there were laborers working nearby; he had passed some sort of worksite on his way in. From where he stood, he could hear the faint sound of picks and shovels hitting the ground. It was a rhythmic sound, hypnotic in this heat, and he closed his eyes, momentarily lulled.
Something snapped him out of his trance.
He blinked, not certain if he was seeing things. There seemed to be an apparition emerging from the Source. And it was heading his way.
From where he stood, it first appeared to be a single creature, some large and misshapen organism floating toward him in the hot, shimmering air like a mirage.
As it approached, it was easier to see that it was a group of people. One walked in front. Another, hooded like the messenger from before, walked by his side and held out a large black umbrella, to shield him from the sun. Two more hooded figures, presumably guards, flanked them.
The leader wore no headgear, revealing that he was pale, luminously so, almost like the underbelly of a frog. His pallor was accentuated by a shock of dark hair that fell over his forehead and his black clothing.
To Caleb, it was clear what this was meant to convey. In a world where everyone had to be swathed in white against a deadly sun, such a wardrobe was a show of strength, a taunt to the elements, a way of being above and better than the heat.
Caleb assumed this must be Levi.
"Greetings," the leader called as they got within earshot.
Farther back, another guard held a second umbrella over a girl, who picked her way with difficulty across the broken surface on thin-soled sandals. She was fair-haired and impossibly pale, as well; she was perhaps fourteen or so. She wore a meager, turquoise-colored top and shorts, her white midriff exposed. A gem-like stud in her navel glinted in the sun.
The group stopped at a reasonable distance from Caleb, not getting too close. The two guards continued to keep their umbrellas raised, shielding Levi and the girl from the sun. Caleb noticed what looked like weapons at the belts of all four henchmen, a chunk of plastic and metal that he had glimpsed beneath the raingear worn by the messenger.
That Levi was both so physically protected and so attentive to his appearance made Caleb assume he was weak. Yet Caleb was also aware that there were other ways of being strong than through sheer physical might.
One way was to be clever.
Levi stared at him for a long moment. His sunglasses were made of a mirror-like material that wrapped around the top part of his face, rendering his eyes unreadable; and Caleb was unable to see his full expression. Yet the boy's mouth opened slightly with what appeared to be surprise, even fascination. Then he regained his composure.
"I'm Levi," he said.
He didn't bother to extend his hand; he kept his arms by his side, one thumb hooked in his front pocket. Caleb didn't offer up his own.
"Caleb," he said.
For a second, the other boy's face seemed familiar, but Caleb dismissed it as a play of shadows.
"This is Michal," Levi said, with a casual, almost indifferent nod to the girl. She gave him an eager smile.
"Good to meet you," Caleb said.
"Care for some water?" Levi said. "It's clean."
Caleb smiled. How could he say no? The simple offer established that Caleb was now in Levi's debt and must be grateful.
"Sure," Caleb answered.
Levi gave a short nod to one of the guards, who tossed a blue metal bottle at their guest. It was actually cold. Caleb acknowledged his thanks with a slight tilt of his head. Then he uncapped it and drank.
Levi was watching him; behind his glasses, he almost seemed amused. "Keep it," he said as Caleb offered the bottle back. Not caring that this put him further in his host's debt, Caleb slid it in his backpack.
"Whereabouts are you from?" Levi said. "You're not from around here, are you?"
Caleb shook his head. "I've been traveling a long time," he said. "I come from beyond the mountain range to the north."
There was a moment's pause. Then: "Don't know the area," Levi said blandly. Pleasantries over, he got to the point. "I've heard things about you from my boys."
"Is that right? What kinds of things?"
"That you single-handedly fought off the mutants. And that now you're officially protecting Prin."
Caleb shrugged. "It's not official. And it's just for a little while."
"Don't sell yourself short," replied Levi. "It's impressive. And the town needs help. I could only do so much for them." At this, he lifted one hand, dismissively. Silver glinted on three of his fingers.
Caleb shrugged again. By now, he was aware that the other boy seemed to be studying him, as if waiting for some kind of response. He had no idea what it was supposed to be. He had been waiting for the right moment to inquire about the accelerant when his host gestured across the parking lot, in the direction of the work sounds Caleb had heard before.
"Would you let me show you something?" Levi said.
It was clearly not meant to be a question, Caleb thought. Levi had the ability to make people not only obey him but also feel as if they worked for him too, even when they didn't. In a way, he admired such manipulative skill; it made him feel clumsily physical by comparison. He was willing to bet Levi could also read well, something he could barely do. If you could only combine Levi's brains with his fighting abilities, Caleb thought idly, you'd have a perfect leader.
"Okay," he said. "Show me."
Levi snapped his fingers at the guard assisting Michal. He stepped forward, abandoning his charge, in order to hold his umbrella over Caleb. Exposed, the frightened girl had no choice but to run to Levi, clinging to his arm for protection from the sun.
Levi strolled across the parking lot, followed by his entourage. Caleb followed, curious, and grateful for the shade.
By the time they reached the end of the asphalt, the sounds of people at work were so close, Caleb could make out the grunting of individuals, the shouts of a Supervisor, the rasping of metal on rock. Levi stopped in front of a chain-link fence strung with barbed wire that seemed to encircle the entire parking lot and gestured at Caleb to look down.
On the other side was a deep trench. It was the only one of at least three such pits scooped out of the earth that surrounded the parking lot, one after the other. Each represented a tremendous amount of effort; they were deeper than the height of two men and at least three times longer than that.
Toiling in each trench were a dozen townspeople of every age. Some used picks to break up the rock and packed earth beneath their feet; others shoveled up what was excavated and tossed it behind them. There, the youngest workers filled plastic buckets with the dirt. At the end of each trench was a primitive pulley, where the children attached the buckets to a dangling rope. They were then pulled to the surface by two other workers and their contents disposed of.
It was appalling, backbreaking work, all the more so because of the weather. The day's rain had turned each trench into a vast and treacherous pit of mud and rainwater, and so everyone wore protective gear: rubber hip boots, gloves, plastic face masks. Caleb couldn't imagine how unbearable it must be to work in such clothing in this heat.
What's more, as far as he could tell, it all looked utterly pointless.
"This is what we call the Excavation," Levi said. "It's one of the fair trades we've devised here in Prin, for the goods I dispense from the Source. It's a system that's been working very well."
"For who?" Caleb couldn't help asking.
"For everyone," Levi replied. He sounded sincere.
"I see."
"I know what you're thinking. That it seems to have no purpose. But that's where you're wrong."
Levi stepped forward, out of the shade of his own umbrella and into Caleb's. As he did, he took the umbrella from the guard, who backed off. The two boys were now standing very close to one another; their faces were mere inches apart and Caleb would have stepped back, if it wouldn't have been so obviously rude.
Levi addressed him in a voice so soft that even Caleb had trouble making out the words.
"They're digging for something," he said. "Something important. Even precious. No one can know what it is, because they wouldn't understand. Look at them. They're animals." He indicated the guards and Michal with a glance that was dismissive and contemptuous. "When I find what I'm looking for—and I will—I'm going to need help with it."
Caleb nodded, just listening. Levi never raised his voice yet still managed to speak with absolute conviction. He stared into Caleb's eyes, which Caleb noticed were the same shade of gray as his own. He heard something resonant in the boy's voice. Had he heard it before? All of this threw him for a second.
"Do you have any family? A partner?"
Caleb was jolted back to reality by this question.
"I did," he said. "Once."
Levi was nodding as if in confirmation. "There's an opportunity here," he said at last, "but not just for anyone. It's for someone who thinks big, someone who can rise to an occasion. Someone who's like me."
After a long pause, Caleb answered, finally understanding what was going on. "You're offering me a job."
Levi remained motionless, not even blinking, his face still close to Caleb's. "That's one way of looking at it."
"Who said I want one?"
"You're already working for _them_." He almost spit out the word; it took Caleb a moment to realize he was talking about the workers in the pit, the people of Prin. "Why are you wasting your abilities?"
"I told you. That's just for now."
"What I'm offering you isn't a job. It's a future. Don't you want one of those?"
Caleb hesitated before he shook his head, this time with certainty. "That's not why I'm here."
"No? Then why are you?"
"I want to find who killed my partner and stole my boy. That's why. And that's it."
Levi's remarkably pale face flushed. Briefly, he shook his head no, as if he couldn't accept what he'd just heard. "You're better than that."
"Am I?"
"Yes. I can tell. You want to build something positive. Revenge will just leave a bad taste."
"Maybe it's not revenge. Maybe it's justice."
Levi shrugged away the difference. "That's a lonely road," he said.
He turned and beckoned to the girl, who had been waiting beneath the other guard's umbrella. She pointed to herself, startled, and Levi nodded, impatiently. Smiling, glad to be of service, Michal moved forward.
But before she could reach the shade shared by the two boys, Levi raised a hand to stop her. Then he turned back to Caleb.
"You wouldn't have to be lonely here," he said. "I'd make sure you had friends. Right, Michal?" He raised his voice. "You'd be Caleb's friend, wouldn't you?"
Caleb looked at the girl. Michal was sweating, her pale skin already turning pink in the bright sun. She couldn't hear everything that Levi had said, so she simply nodded with pathetic eagerness, desperate to please.
"More than friend," Levi added. He raised his voice so she couldn't miss the insinuation in his voice.
The guards did not miss it either. As they guffawed lasciviously, Michal's face froze and her eager smile faded.
Levi turned back to Caleb. "You could start a new family," he said. "You'd get over your old one in no time."
Caleb felt sickened by not only what Levi was offering, but his blithe assumption that it would please him. He stared coldly at the other boy.
"No thanks," he said.
For the first time, Levi seemed off guard; Caleb thought he could see him blinking rapidly behind his sunglasses, as if to regroup. Then Levi waved the girl away, back to the shelter of the guard's umbrella.
He now gestured behind them, to the massive building looming in the near distance.
"You don't know the things I have in there," Levi said; "clothing. Furniture. Gold watches." He seemed less sure of himself now, his voice beseeching. "If you worked for me, I'd make sure you had your fair share of whatever you liked. There's more in there than you could ever want."
Caleb paused. "Actually, there is one thing I want."
Levi waited for him to tell him.
"It's an accelerant," Caleb said. "For setting fires. It's called 'Able.' I was told it could be found around here."
Levi paused for a second. Then he shrugged, as if to say, what did this have to do with me? He seemed to have lost interest, as if he had just found out that Caleb was a less worthy person than he imagined. "As far as I know, we've never stocked it."
"You never sold any to mutants?"
"Of course not. From time to time, we've done a little trading, but just the necessities. Deer meat for water. That sort of thing."
Caleb nodded. This might explain what Esther saw at the variant camp. "Have you ever been robbed?"
Levi smiled and then shook his head, as if charmed by Caleb's naïveté. "That's ridiculous."
But Caleb wouldn't let it go. "Do you mind if I take a look inside? It's not that I don't trust you. I'd just like to see with my own eyes."
Levi stared at him for a moment; then he smiled. "Of course," he said. "It's the least I could do."
He said a few words to his guards; then everyone turned around and headed across the parking lot, back to the Source.
Inside, it was impossibly cool and dark. It took Caleb's eyes several moments to get adjusted to the gloom. He was aware that Levi was waiting for him before he took off through the cavernous space.
"Stay close," Levi called over his shoulder. "It's easy to get lost in here and I don't want to waste your time."
Yet Levi walked at a deliberate pace down the endless aisles. Caleb wondered if this was intentional, a way of showing off his wealth. Certainly, he had never seen so many supplies in his life. A single crate, he reckoned, could feed a family for months.
Levi stopped and turned around.
"This is where it would be," Levi said, nodding over his shoulder. "Household supplies. You see?" He pointed at the crates stacked high on the oversize shelves. "This is where we keep all the solvents and flammables. We have turpentine, floor cleaner, bleach, hydrogen peroxide, ammonia. But I'm afraid not what you're looking for."
"Can I?" asked Caleb, and Levi nodded, stepping aside.
Caleb scanned the shelves. Although he could barely read, he knew how to spell "Able"; still, it was laborious work. And after close searching, he had to admit that Levi was correct; nothing by that name was there.
Levi walked him to the door. "Well," he said, "I'm sorry you weren't able to find what you were looking for. But you know where I am in case you change your mind."
"I won't," replied Caleb.
Levi hesitated. "In that case," he said, "you might consider trying down the road a ways. There's another town where I heard they trade with the mutants. If you follow the main road to the east, it's at least a full day's ride. I suggest getting a start first thing in the morning."
Caleb nodded his thanks and, without a handshake or another word, was gone.
Levi watched from his hidden window until the other was out of sight. Then he immediately headed back downstairs, to the main warehouse floor.
In one aisle, a hooded guard braced a stepladder on wheels and another stood on its top step, craning to see onto a high shelf.
"Found it yet?" Levi asked.
The guard grunted an affirmative and handed something down, a crate with a name stamped on its side. It took two guards to carry it.
"Hurry up and bring it this way," said Levi. "I want you to put it in my office." He was glad his boys never learned to read.
For although he would never admit it, certainly not to his underlings, Levi was nervous now. Maybe for the first time.
"Make sure," he said, "that he's gone by morning."
## NINE
WHEN CALEB EMERGED FROM THE SOURCE, IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON.
He headed out of the asphalt lot toward the main road. He bicycled through the center of town, passing townspeople on their way home from work. He wasn't sure of his exact destination, but he sensed it lay on the north side of town.
_I'm usually in the fields near the tracks_ , Esther had said.
As he approached the bleached land that lay beyond a cluster of abandoned office buildings, Caleb dismounted his bicycle and wheeled it next to him. It was pointless to ride; the ground was littered with broken glass and scraps of old metal. Far away, he could just make out the glint of train rails mostly hidden by overgrown and sun-bleached grass.
By now, the sun was setting, sending blinding shafts of light from the horizon. Caleb shielded his eyes with one hand as he scanned the desolate expanse. Other than the rusted hulk of a truck, a soiled and rain-bloated sofa spilling stuffing, and the charred remains of a bonfire, he saw nothing.
Then his glance flickered back to a small copse of trees in the distance.
They had lost most of their leaves and their branches were bare and skeletal in the November twilight. But even in the fading sun, he could make out a patch of color amid the black limbs.
It was a red hoodie.
From where she sat, Esther watched as Caleb wheeled his bicycle toward her. Although no one ever came to the fields, she had recognized him the moment she saw him, no bigger than a speck on the horizon. She was surprised by how quickly her heart began beating; it almost hurt and she forced herself to look away. She waited until he was below her before she trusted herself to speak.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey."
He stretched up a hand, but refusing his help, she jumped down. She smiled up at him, but his expression was serious. He wasted no time in pleasantries.
"I just came to say good-bye," he said.
Whatever Esther was about to say froze on her lips. The sense of shock was like a physical blow, sharp and unexpected.
"Why?"
"The thing I'm looking for isn't here. Levi told me about another town I should try. It's a day's ride away, so I have to leave in the morning."
"But . . . what about Prin?"
"They'll have to do without me."
"But they'll want you to stay." Esther couldn't help herself; the words sprang unbidden to her lips. " _I_ want you to."
She blushed, and Caleb also averted his gaze. Then he spoke, as if addressing the ground:
"We still have all night."
Together, they headed across the field and back onto the main street. But instead of going into the center of town, Esther turned the other way. They walked along the crumbling sidewalk, following a tall metal fence for several blocks until they reached a gate. A rusted sign hung overhead. Esther couldn't read most of the words but knew it was a place where people once buried their dead. Although it was nearly dark, they went inside.
Along the way, Esther and Caleb talked. They followed the broad pathway, which was covered with white gravel and gave off a faint glow. They passed rows of tombstones that had been defaced or toppled by vandals. Crosses, angels, and obelisks lay smashed and cracked on their sides. The path looped its way through the trees and past the dried remains of what seemed a large fountain, edged by wooden benches. They sat on the one that wasn't broken.
Esther felt Caleb tense up beside her. "What's wrong?"
She heard it as soon as she spoke. There was a rustling sound close by, and the rattle of gravel. An overhead cloud shifted, revealing silhouettes moving in the shadows around them.
"Dogs," said Caleb. He raised his voice, and the forms seemed to hesitate. "We're okay, but we should probably get back."
He and Esther stood, stamping their feet as they did. Wild dogs wouldn't attack two people, especially if they walked slowly, making noise as they went. Still, the hair on Esther's arms stood up; if fear had a smell, she hoped the animals couldn't detect it. She and Caleb retraced their steps, following the white pathway until they emerged back on the main street.
Caleb insisted on walking her home. She gladly let him, and together, they headed through the center of town. When they reached the Starbucks, she turned to face him.
"Goodnight," she said. She didn't want to say good-bye.
Caleb said nothing. He just reached out and held her hand for a second, then pulled away.
Esther opened the door and turned to say something else. But he was gone. All that was left was the sound of his bicycle disappearing into the darkness.
_Esther was running down an empty road._
_She was playing Shelter and, for once, she was winning. Jubilant, she could see the safe place, the large cardboard box, in the distance. It sat incongruously in the middle of the highway, straddling the double lines that seemed to go on forever under a hot yellow sky._
_Yet as she got closer, her legs started to move slower and slower. Each step felt as if she was fighting her way through deep sand and she panicked at the thought of losing, of someone else getting there before her._
_Soon she couldn't move; she attempted to thrash her arms and legs, but they were pinned down by their own weight. The ground began to crumble and collapse beneath her; she was breaking through the earth and would soon be swallowed by it, buried alive._
_Someone grasped her by the hand. She clung to her rescuer and struggled to break free as he lifted her from her grave. The caked dirt fell from her face and she could see who it was._
_Caleb._
_He was saying something to her, something urgent. To not give up. To keep fighting._
_Then, as if from far away, she heard a cry . . ._
Esther jerked awake in the darkness, her heart pounding.
It took her a moment to realize she was safe at home, in bed. But far away, a girl actually was screaming.
She rose and crossed into the dark living room. When she peered from behind the curtains, the first gray light of early morning revealed two cloaked forms hurrying down the sidewalk, carrying bundles.
Esther checked to make sure her sister was still asleep. Then she dressed and stole down the stairs and into the street. Far ahead, she noticed that the two people had been joined by another. She followed them for several blocks, until they turned onto a side street. The three were apparently on their way to the home of Trey and Aima, which was once a store. The opaque glass door still had the words "dry cleaning" painted on it. Now, it gaped open and light spilled onto the sidewalk.
This was where the screams were coming from.
Unnoticed, Esther stood in the open doorway, stunned by the noise and activity. Inside, the sobs and shrieks were deafening. Bleary-eyed females, robotic with fatigue, nevertheless moved around the room with purpose, carrying towels, plastic jugs of water, blankets. Although the air was stifling and dense with smoke, one of them tended a blackened fire bowl in the corner of the room, tossing chunks of wood onto the leaping flames.
The crowd parted for a moment and Esther could see what was happening.
Aima squatted in the center of the small room, clutching the edge of the laminated counter. To Esther, she was unrecognizable. Her soaking nightdress hiked up, her monstrous belly suspended over her knees, she was white-faced and gasping, her hair plastered across her face. Two females kneeled by her side, supporting her, and again, she screamed.
Esther, horrified, couldn't speak.
Aima threw back her head, causing the cords in her neck to stand out like ropes. She strained powerfully, her teeth clenched and her hands white-knuckled on the edge of the counter. Something dark and wet shot from beneath her and was caught by one of the waiting females. At the same time, there was a loud gushing sound, as an eruption of clear liquid and bright red blood splashed onto the dirty tiled floor. Moments later, there was the thin, reedy cry of a newborn. The others closed around Aima, murmuring as they tended to her.
But something was wrong.
One of the girls gasped and another flinched. Something was said in an urgent whisper, followed by a muffled exclamation.
" _No._ " Aima's voice was faint, but it rose above the clamor. " _No! It can't be!_ "
Esther craned her neck, trying to see what was wrong. But the person closest to her swiveled around, her hands slick with blood and afterbirth. She noticed Esther for the first time, and her eyes blazed with anger.
"Ain't nothing to stare at," she hissed. "It was born dead."
Esther recoiled.
Everyone in the room, even Aima, was suddenly aware of her. Silence fell, and all of the females turned one by one to stare at Esther. Stammering apologies, she stumbled backward out of the room, nearly tripping on the doorsill. When she was outside, the opaque glass door was pointedly pushed shut behind her.
Esther stood alone on the sidewalk, thinking about what she had just seen. She was deeply rattled.
It was not just the sight of childbirth that bothered her, although the violence far exceeded anything she could have imagined. Nor was it her rude exclusion from the circle of women, a secret society that had never wanted or welcomed her.
_It was born dead,_ the girl said.
Yet Esther had heard it cry out.
Instead of going home, Esther retreated to a darkened doorway where she could see Trey and Aima's home. There she waited to see what would happen next. She leaned against the side of a building and felt her eyelids droop; she was about to pass out on her feet. She was ready to give up and head home when the door across the street opened, spilling light onto the sidewalk as a figure exited and walked away.
Whoever it was carried something bundled in her arms.
Esther used the tracking skills she had learned from Skar to attempt to follow undetected. Oblivious, her target hurried through the darkened streets, sure of where she was going. Once, she glanced around, as if sensing she was being trailed. Esther melted into the shadow of a streetlamp, and satisfied, the other girl continued.
Onward they walked, the robed girl in front, Esther half a block behind. They reached the outskirts of town, past the Source looming huge and white in the early morning light, and still the female continued. She turned off the road and cut through the land beyond the gaping pits of the Excavation, picking her way across the precarious open wasteland made up of the debris of collapsed buildings.
Occasionally, she shifted the bundle in her arms.
At last, she arrived at what appeared to be her destination. It was a massive oil tower, a giant steel tank set high atop four spiderlike legs. Weather and time had eaten away the letters once painted on its side, and the metal was corroded with rust and rot. A spindly ladder made its way to the top. At its base, the female finally set down her bundle.
Esther stepped out of the shadows. "What do you aim to do with that baby?"
The female started violently and cried out in fear. When she saw who it was, her expression changed to one of utter disbelief.
"You followed me?" she asked. It was Sian, an older girl Esther knew only slightly. "All the way from town?"
Esther nodded. "What do you aim to do with that baby?" she repeated.
Sian shook her head dismissively.
"It ain't no baby," she said.
She stepped aside and Esther could see the child. It was tiny, much smaller than she had imagined. It whimpered, then beat at the air with its minuscule legs and arms. The blanket fell away and in the early morning light, Esther could see its sex, which was a misshapen lump, neither male nor female. Its nose was nearly flat, little more than slits in its broad face. Its eyes were far apart, bulging, and lavender in color.
It was a variant.
Esther, stunned, tried to make sense of it.
"So you're just leaving it out here to die?" she asked.
Sian shook her head with a mixture of disgust and pity. Then with her robes hiked up, she took hold of the ladder and began to climb, an orange T-shirt clenched in her teeth. When she was more than halfway up, she tied it to a rung with a clumsy knot. Then she made her way back down.
"This way, they know," she said.
"You mean the—" Esther started to ask, but the other girl cut her off.
"The fathers don't want to know. And the mothers want to forget. So this is how we figured it out with the mutants, long ago. It works out the best for everybody."
Esther couldn't take her eyes off the baby. It had found its thumb and sucked on it.
"It's a secret only the mothers know," said Sian. She stared at Esther, her voice hard. "And now you do, too."
Esther headed home, walking down the center of the road that led to town. The sun was already well in the sky and she was aware that she risked being detected by a crew on its way to work. Yet she was too exhausted and confused to care.
She was thinking of all the couples in town and how so few of the females ever managed to become pregnant. Of the few dozen who carried a child to term, most of their babies were born dead.
Or at least that was what everybody was told.
Now it seemed the truth was both simpler and more complex. Her suspicions had been right, all along: Variants weren't animals at all, but humans. That the mothers of Prin kept this secret was something she couldn't have begun to imagine.
Still brooding, Esther walked home down the center of the street. Although the sun was visible above the horizon, it was too early for anyone else to be out. She was not aware of the bicycle until it had pulled up beside her. The rider in robes and dark glasses jumped down, removing the scarf that covered its face.
"Esther." It was Eli, his face flushed and eager. "I saw you from my window and wanted to talk."
She smiled back politely and he fell into step next to her, pushing his bike. They walked like that in silence for a few moments. He seemed to want to say something, but each time she looked at him, he merely blushed.
"Esther," he began again.
When she glanced at him, he cleared his throat. Then he awkwardly reached over and, to her shock, took her hand. His skin was rough and dry; his palm seemed the size of a dinner plate. She stared at him, uncomprehending.
"We known each other a long time," he said. Esther could see her distorted reflection in each of his sunglass lenses; she looked confused and exhausted. "And you got to know how I feel about you. I guess what I'm saying is, I want to be . . . I was hoping you might think about me becoming . . . your partner." He finished in a rush, his face red.
Esther was speechless.
Yet why should it be a surprise? At fifteen, Esther was past the average age for partnering. Still, she could have three or four good years ahead of her. And Eli had always been kind and generous. In a town that treated her like an outsider, he had never made any secret of his affection for her. And even she had to admit, she may have encouraged him by asking favors.
Now Esther stared at him critically, as if seeing him for the first time. Eli was not tall, but he was strong and healthy. He had thick, wavy hair, a nice smile, and dark brown eyes. His voice was deep and pleasant, and he was a hard worker, dependable and considerate. She could do a lot worse than to become his partner.
Yet she felt nothing beyond an acknowledgment that he was a good catch. Was that reason enough for her . . . or for him, for that matter? Was she so wrong to expect something more from a decision she would have to live with for the rest of her life?
Eli had stopped talking and seemed to be waiting for her to respond. Yet Esther found her thoughts were not on the boy in front of her.
She was thinking of Caleb.
Esther pulled away her hand. "I can't tell you right now," she said. "I'm sorry. I just can't."
Eli stared at her, clearly disappointed. Then he tried to smile.
"Sure," he said with forced heartiness. "I can understand that. A girl needs time to think this kind of thing over."
As she walked away, stiff with self-consciousness, Esther could feel Eli's eyes following her before she heard the sound of his bicycle heading off. But she was still rattled.
If she were paying more attention, she might have noticed that although the sun was well over the horizon, there were no other townspeople outside, on their way to work. Instead, the streets were empty. It was not until she entered her building and crossed the empty storefront to reach the stairs in the back that she noticed that something was odd.
Esther paused. The building around her felt different somehow. Every nerve ending in her body told her that.
Her first thought was of her sister. Esther hesitated at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the banister.
"Sarah?" she whispered.
And with that, they were upon her.
Two townspeople lunged down the stairs and sprang at her. Although startled, Esther was able to leap backward and avoid their grasp. But she was not prepared for the two others who now rushed in from the street, blocking her escape. One of them seized her by the arms; another struggled to bind her wrists behind her back with an elasticized cloth cord that had black metal hooks at each end. Esther struck out, kicking and punching, but she was only one against several and was quickly overpowered.
"What are you doing?" she screamed. Her mind was whirling; was she being punished for finding out about Aima's baby?
No one answered. Rafe walked in, his expression unreadable.
"Rafe!" she screamed. "Help me!"
But a vile-tasting rag was stuffed into her mouth. Esther couldn't speak; she could barely breathe. The last thing she saw across the room was Sarah, clinging to the doorframe, her hand to her mouth. Her face was white with shock and anguish.
With arms tied behind her, Esther was dragged from the building and down the street. When she stumbled, she was yanked back up by her elbows. It was a long, hot walk.
When the group stopped, they were in the middle of what had once been a large lake on the outskirts of town. The ground under their feet was dusty red clay, baked hard by the sun and littered with trash. The shoreline was edged by dead willows and more than a few dozen motorboats that balanced lopsidedly on their hulls, long since drained of any gasoline. A rickety bridge spanned the narrowest part of the lakebed, cinching it like a belt.
The five people who surrounded her were identical in their reflective sunglasses and face scarfs. Only Rafe spoke.
"You know why you're here," he said. "We got word you left your work detail. You got anything to say?"
Esther swallowed as the realization sank in: It wasn't about the baby after all. The situation seemed so unreal that only the pain of the rubberized cords biting into her wrists told her this was not a dream. "It was Rhea, wasn't it?" she said in a low voice. "She hates me and my sister."
"It don't matter if she hates you or not," said Rafe. "Was it true what she said?"
"I worked hard on the Harvesting. You could ask anyone else who was there."
"You're not answering the question," Rafe replied. "Did you leave your work detail or didn't you?"
When she didn't answer, he nodded his head. "That was what I thought."
Esther glanced at the others in open appeal. They must have been thinking what she was: that no one in Prin had ever been Shunned for anything less than illness or a serious crime. Never for something as minor as skipping work detail. Rafe was just following Levi's new rules without thinking, and for that, Esther found him more contemptible than ever.
Two of her neighbors refused to meet her gaze. It was clear that none of them was going to help her in any way, to speak in her defense or ask for mercy.
"Esther," said Rafe. "You are hereby Shunned from Prin."
He nodded, and one of the others fumbled to undo her bonds. Another handed Esther a nylon backpack which she took, numbly. In it, she knew that there would be supplies meant to last a week or so.
For an instant, Esther sensed that this last person was viewing her with regret, even sympathy. But the moment passed and whoever it was joined the others, who stood together, watching in silence.
In a daze, Esther walked across the lake surface and toward the rising sun.
On a grassy patch behind the bank, the seven townspeople surrounded Caleb. He was in the middle, holding a long, wooden stick with an angled end, the word EASTON printed along the laminated shaft.
Caleb addressed one of the students, a tall boy. "Tell me what you're going to do," he said.
"I'm going to go with the motion of the push and see where it takes me," said the boy.
Caleb nodded. Then he raised the stick and used it to shove the boy in the right shoulder. The boy grabbed the stick with both hands and pushed back.
Caleb shook his head.
"No," he said. "See how you're fighting back? You're pushing _against_ the motion. I want you to go with it instead and see where it takes you." The tall boy nodded, brow furrowed with concentration.
This was the second day of class and the boy with the red hair was surprised; things were going much better than before. Somehow, he had absorbed some of Caleb's earlier verbal lessons. Now he was focused on the actual basics of fighting.
That morning, they had spent three hours on punching. The boy hadn't realized there was so much to learn and how little he knew: how to make a fist to best protect your thumb and knuckles. How to aim for a distance a hand's width beyond your intended target to maximize the impact. How, if you lacked arm strength, you could use speed to compensate. How to increase your power by stepping into the punch with your entire body. How to relax your body until the instant you threw the punch.
Now Caleb lifted the staff again. "We're going to try it slowly," he said, "and this time, don't fight it. Relax and try going with the motion." As he pushed the stick against the tall boy's left shoulder, the boy allowed himself to be guided backward, his body twisting.
"Where is your right arm going?" Caleb asked.
The boy gestured: It was swinging inward.
"Now make a fist with it. Think about using that natural movement and using it to help you punch inward. Again."
The two repeated the move, and this time, the boy succeeded in turning the attack into a roundhouse punch.
"Do you see what you're doing?" asked Caleb. "By going with the motion, you're decreasing the damage to your shoulder. At the same time, you're using it to generate an unexpected attack, from the other side."
As the tall boy thought this over, everyone else in the circle murmured. "Thanks," said the tall boy, beaming with excitement.
Caleb glanced at the sky; the sun was almost overhead and he made a quick calculation. After he had worked with everyone in the circle, he would have only a short time to teach basic self-defense moves. Then he would devote the afternoon to beginning techniques in slingshot, sap, and short club.
With any luck, they would be finished by sundown.
He knew he was going quickly, much too quickly, for his lessons to be truly useful. If they could even remember what he was teaching them, his students would have to practice each move for many weeks, hundreds if not thousands of times. Only then would their new skills start to become automatic and, therefore, any help at all. But even the best of them would be nothing more than mere beginners: eager, perhaps, but clumsy and unskilled.
To learn to fight well took months, even years of training. And he had spent little more than a day with them.
It was the best he could do. He should have left Prin already, gone that morning. Yet at the last moment he decided to stay a day longer. He unexpectedly felt obligated to these people and wanted to leave them with at least a fighting chance to protect themselves.
There was another reason that was even more important. He had to see Esther again.
"How are we doing?"
Caleb looked up; Rafe stood in the doorway of the bank. His hands clasped behind his back, he rocked up and down on his heels, checking out the class. Caleb noted the _we_ in his question. This was the first time the town's leader had deigned to show up. While learning to fight was something for others to do, Rafe seemed happy to share the credit.
" _We'll_ get there," Caleb replied.
Rafe gestured for Caleb to approach him. "What's your guess on how long it'll take?" he asked in a low voice. "How many days do you think?"
_Days?_ Caleb thought. _More like months._ But he didn't say it.
"Hard to figure," he replied.
But there was no time to keep talking. The red-haired boy had seized the staff and was using it to prod the others, with a bit too much enthusiasm, in an attempt to drill them in the technique they had just been taught.
"More slowly," Caleb said, walking back to the group. "It's not a natural reaction . . . you have to feel it first. Let me show you . . ."
It was sunset. His pack strapped onto the back of his bicycle, Caleb stopped in the street outside the building marked STARBUCKS. He didn't want this to be the last time he saw Esther. Yet how in good conscience could he ask her to join him?
He looked up at the second-floor window, half open and framed by a fluttering white curtain. He called up, just loud enough to be heard.
"Hey?"
After a minute, a girl came to the glass and looked down. Wearing a flowered bathrobe held close to her throat, she looked haunted. This must be Esther's older sister, Caleb thought. He raised a hand to get her attention.
"Is Esther at home?" he asked.
At the name, the girl winced. There was a pause during which she did not reply. She untied the curtain, which fell and covered the window. Then, just a shadow, she walked away.
Caleb rode on, disturbed. Although he knew he should be leaving, the weird encounter made him want to see Esther more than ever. So, as evening deepened, he continued to search for her.
He headed along the main street of Prin, glanced down alleyways, passed the meeting hall, the old parking garage, the bank. By now, the streets were largely deserted; most people were home from work. Whenever he saw anyone, he asked, "You know Esther? Where she might be?" Each time, he got the same response: averted eyes, an evasive shrug, an unpersuasive no.
Heading down one street was a group of stragglers. They stopped, recognizing Caleb. Some were in awe, too shy to speak. He asked them the same questions.
"Any of you know Esther? Where she might be?"
One girl found the courage to respond. "She's gone."
"Gone?" Caleb said. "What do you mean?"
"She's just gone," the girl said. "For good."
The others glared at her. One tugged at her sleeve, whispering that they'd be late. But it was clearly an excuse.
"But where did she—" Caleb started to ask, but they were walking away, the girl shooting him an apologetic gaze over her shoulder.
Caleb stood there, still straddling his bicycle. Now he found the idea of leaving impossible. Despite what the girl said, he couldn't believe it was true. Esther would never have left without telling him. And where would she go? So he did the only thing he could, continue his methodical search for Esther, up and down the streets of Prin.
Eventually, he made it to the railroad tracks on the outskirts of town. The tree where Esther had perched, watching him, was empty, as were the surrounding fields. It had been many hours; by now, the horizon was touched with pink.
He glanced up. Outlined by the rising sun, someone on a bike had crested a nearby hill and stood looking down at him. The face was obscured by a black hood.
Another one of Levi's boys, Caleb thought. What did he want?
At that moment, the sun shifted, momentarily blinding him. Still, he could see that the boy's arm had risen, in what appeared to be a wave.
Caleb raised his hand in response. As he did, he blocked the light and perceived the truth: The boy was holding a fiberglass hunting bow and drawing back the string.
There was a hissing sound, and Caleb felt a sudden blow. He stumbled, and a moment later, heat blossomed across his shoulder, surrounding the feathered shaft embedded in it.
## TEN
THE DAY BEFORE, THE HEAT HAD BEEN INESCAPABLE.
It not only beat down from the sun; it radiated up from the concrete and oozing tar. The air itself shimmered with arid heat, forming waves that danced across the horizon.
Esther was not prepared for such relentless exposure.
Even with her thin hoodie tied closely around her face, her lips and nose were soon chapped and blistering. She did not have sunglasses, and the ceaseless glare was excruciating to her unprotected eyes. And although she was wearing sneakers, the bottoms of her feet were burning through the thin rubber soles.
Only now, an hour since she had left the boundaries of Prin, did the full impact of what had happened hit her.
She had only enough supplies to last a few days, she realized, and no weapons, no tools, and no shelter. She would never see her home again or climb her stairs or sleep in her bed. She would never see anyone she knew again, neither Caleb nor Sarah.
At the thought of them, Esther felt a flicker of hope. But a moment later, she recalled with a sinking heart that anyone who helped a person who was Shunned incurred the same sentence as well.
Except for the variants.
Variants had no need for the laws and regulations of the town. They followed their own rules and meted out their own justice.
With a pang, Esther recalled that she and Skar had parted on bad terms. Moreover, she knew that she had ignored her friend's desperate attempts to contact her. But Skar had never been the kind of person to hold a grudge; surely, she would forgive Esther when she found out the trouble she was in and convince her tribe to take pity on her.
By now, it was midmorning. On foot, it would take Esther until sundown to reach the variants' camp, but at least she knew where she was heading. She took off for the foothills that lay on the horizon.
Mostly, she ran at a swift trot, ignoring the agonizing blisters that formed on her feet. Even so, it was not until the sun was disappearing over the horizon that she saw the poisoned black lake glittering ahead of her. She veered from the roadway, hurdling the low metal fence and plunging into the deep undergrowth.
After the bright heat of the highway, the relatively dark and dappled forest was a relief. Esther toiled up the steep hillside, passing the tree with its faint white mark. As she neared the camp, she went slower and more cautiously. Every several minutes, she gave her special, two-tone call. Soon, she was at the edge of a small meadow, the last clearing before the final ascent to the variant camp. She was about to repeat her call when the whistle was returned. From across the meadow, she saw a flicker of movement as Skar stepped out from the trees.
"Esther?" Skar called.
The girl emerged from her hiding place and the two ran to each other. As Esther hugged her friend, overwhelming relief and exhaustion caused her knees to buckle and she almost collapsed.
"What happened?" Skar asked. Concerned, she led Esther to a flat boulder, where the two sat. "Every day, I have been signaling you and you haven't responded. I was worried you were still angry with me. But now, I see something else was wrong."
Esther nodded. "I'm in real trouble," she said in a low voice. Then in a rush, she explained everything that had occurred.
Throughout, Skar listened without speaking, her expression unusually grave.
"So I need your help," Esther concluded haltingly. She was aware that her normally talkative friend was not saying anything, and she found this disturbing. "Please. I need you to ask your tribe if I can stay here."
Biting her lip, Skar dropped her gaze.
"It is not so simple anymore," she said at last. Then she looked up at Esther. "Why didn't you answer my signal before? I wanted so much to explain to you face to face. Then you would understand my situation."
"What do you mean? What situation?"
Skar held out her arm.
Esther glanced down. Her friend was still wearing the meaningless assortment of silver bracelets and wristwatches that she had on the last time. But beneath the jewelry, there was something new, something different.
Among the familiar whorls and patterns written on Skar's skin in scar tissue and ash, there was a vivid new line that snaked its way around and up the forearm, from the wrist bone to elbow. The wound was so fresh, it was still dark red with clotted blood and was framed by an angry ridge of pink, inflamed skin. One could still make out the dirt that had been rubbed into the cut, to maximize the scarring.
Esther stared at it, uncomprehending.
Skar was smiling. "I have a partner," she said. Then she giggled, covering her eyes and mouth with both hands as a deep blush stole over her face.
Esther was speechless.
She was not sure why she was so stunned. After all, she and Skar were both fifteen, more than old enough to be partnered. Yet in all the years they had been friends, Skar had always behaved like the younger of the two. She had always looked up to Esther and in many ways, was like a little girl, one who giggled and occasionally played with a castoff doll and still sucked her fingers when she slept.
"It happened so quickly. I was not expecting him to ask," said Skar. "I meant to tell you when I saw you. But I was too surprised when you showed up at my home. And you were so angry, and then you left so fast. You didn't give me a chance."
Esther nodded slowly. This was true, she realized.
Now she swallowed hard. "Your partner," she muttered. "Does this mean you have to ask him for his permission?"
Skar shook her head. "Not for his permission. But his blessing."
Esther allowed Skar to take her by the hand and to lead her deeper into the woods. Soon, they reached a small clearing; the moon had come out and by its light, Esther could make out a nearby stream.
Skar turned to her. "Please try to understand. If it was only my decision, you know I would do anything you ask," she said, giving Esther's hand a final squeeze. "But now, I have someone else I must consult." Then she put her hand to her lips and gave a warbling cry, like a dove.
There was a long silence as the two girls waited. Finally, a solitary variant emerged from the forest.
Skar let go of her friend's hand and went forward to meet him. The two conversed in faint yet urgent whispers. Esther could not make out what they were saying, although it appeared to be an argument. But soon, Skar seized her partner by the hand and tugged on it to bring him close.
"This is Esther," Skar said. She could not hide the anxiety that creased her brow. "And this is Tarq."
The variant boy stared at Esther with open hostility. Although he was the same height as Skar, he was husky and outweighed her by a few pounds. In addition to the triangle he wore on his bicep, his dark skin was covered with other vivid tattoos and scars: stars, moons, the depiction of a hunt. His short tunic was cinched with a leather belt studded with metal, and he wore a plastic wristwatch and several pairs of sunglasses on colorful cords around his neck.
"What are you doing in these woods?" was the first thing he said.
Any polite greeting Esther was thinking of froze on her tongue. "This is neutral territory," she said stiffly.
"But you are Shunned," he said. He spoke not with concern but with hostility. "If anyone were to search for you, this is the first place they would try. Your presence can only bring trouble for my partner."
He stared at her in an open challenge. Esther didn't answer and lifted her chin, matching his antagonistic gaze.
Skar was anxiously looking from one to the other.
"Esther is my oldest friend," she whispered to Tarq. He said nothing at first, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. He had one arm draped around Skar's shoulders and Esther noticed that he now squeezed the nape of her neck possessively.
"And I am your partner," he said. "It is dangerous to be seen with norms. Especially one who has been driven out by her own people."
He raised his head and gave a high-pitched whistle. Moments later, it was answered by a second whistle far away, then a third and then a fourth. Skar glanced up, and Esther could see both panic and concern flash across her face.
"Forgive me, Esther," Skar said. "I want to help. But my people are nearby. If they see you here, they—"
But Esther was not there. She had already slipped back into the forest.
By now, the moon was high overhead. Dizzy and disoriented, Esther did not know where she was going. Still, she continued mechanically placing one foot after the other as she followed the faded double yellow lines; they seemed to go on forever as they bisected the abandoned two-lane highway.
She was filled with rage at the people of Prin. She loathed their cowardice, their blind obedience, and their pettiness. _They were responsible._ Esther's body pulsated with fury, and her churning emotions acted as fuel and provided a rhythm that drove her on as she continued mile after mile down the highway.
Esther stumbled. She had been traveling since dawn that day, and she was close to collapse. She did not recognize any of the landmarks around her, casting long and ominous shadows, but she seemed to be on the outskirts of a small town. When she reached a shopping plaza, she had no choice but to stop for the night.
There were several possible shelters, but Esther was careful about which one she would choose. More than most, she was aware of dangers any unfamiliar building could hold. Many were structurally unsound, with rotting floorboards and ceilings. Any collapse could carry with it a deadly surprise, releasing hidden pockets of stagnant rainwater. Others were infested with roaming hordes of territorial animals, whether they were fire ants, rats, oversize spiders, or snakes. Still others teemed with massive patches of mold and fungus that could make you ill just by breathing their foul air.
After investigating a diner, an eyeglass store, a pharmacy, and a jewelry store, Esther found something that seemed promising, the final business in the block of buildings. It was a large, open space with windows that were mostly intact. In the dim light, she could see that empty metal racks lined the walls and adorned wooden islands. It was, she decided, a clothing store.
Esther picked her way across the trash-littered carpeting to the back. There was a smaller room here, with open booths built into the back wall, side by side. Each held a wooden bench and a full-length mirror. One still had a tattered curtain, which Esther pulled shut behind her. There, after a quick meal of bean cake and water, she curled up and attempted to sleep.
Despite her exhaustion, Esther was too keyed up. Although the store was deserted, tiny sounds kept disrupting the silence: the skittering of claws across wood. A sudden flurry of paper, and a loud squeaking. She tossed on the hard and tiny bench, attempting in vain to find a comfortable position.
Then Esther froze.
There was another sound, but it was not that of an animal. It was much too heavy, much too deliberate. Someone was in the outer room, and he was walking as softly as he could, trying not to make any noise.
In the dark, Esther sat up as she kept her eyes trained on the thin curtain, illuminated by moonlight that streamed in from the front room. She put on her sneakers and gathered up her bag, her muscles tensed to spring.
The footsteps were getting closer. Within seconds, they seemed to stop a few feet outside her booth.
A tiny shadow appeared at the lower corner of the curtain. Esther stared at it. Then suddenly, it extended and sharpened, as a skeletal claw reached out to touch the fabric.
Before it did, Esther ripped the curtain back.
A hulking creature was standing there in filthy and tattered robes. His eyes glittered in an emaciated face encrusted with dirt.
He said something guttural that she could not understand. Then without warning, he lunged at her.
Esther tried to push past him. He was no more than bones floating within his billowing robes, yet he was surprisingly strong as he clawed for her bag. She kicked him in the knee as hard as she could, and he let go for a second, allowing her to dive past. Then she was running through the outer room, leaping through the broken window and into the parking lot.
That was when she noticed that she was not alone.
In the moonlight, she could see at least a dozen skeletal forms moving through the stores and buildings of the shopping plaza. Esther stopped in her tracks. At first, they seemed like spirits of the dead, supernatural creatures from one of the stories Sarah used to read her many years ago. But then, she realized what was happening, and the truth of it was almost worse.
There was nothing left and yet they were obeying a routine they could not shake.
They were attempting to Glean.
She knew they were only people, boys and girls her own age who had been driven mad by hunger, desperation, and exposure. But their hunger was frightening because it seemed unthinking, inhuman, and insectlike.
She took off as fast as she could.
The air was cool and it was a relief to run, to put as much distance as she could between herself and what she had just seen. Yet the night was full of other potential dangers, sounds and shapes that she could not identify. When the moon retreated behind a thick covering of clouds, Esther was plunged into total darkness. She knew she should stop; to risk injuring herself would be stupid. Yet she was beyond caring. She stumbled on a broken piece of roadway and fell hard on her hands and knees.
Esther broke down and cried.
This time she did not do so out of anger or frustration. Instead, she cried because of her foolishness. She cried because she thought she could get away with breaking the rules, and she could not. She cried because, as a result, all was lost. At last, fatigue won out. She lay on her side, curled into a ball; and blessedly, she fell asleep.
Several hours later, Esther awoke on the side of the road, half in the gravel-studded shoulder and half in an overgrown field that bordered the highway. Overhead, the sky was gray with the first light of dawn. Her face was pressed to the concrete, which was still hot, tiny pebbles cutting into her cheek; and despite the scent of gasoline baked into the road, there was a thicker smell, sweet and nauseating, that overpowered it, catching in her throat and making her gag. The air pulsed with a heavy and constant drone as she found herself staring at a piece of broken glass, a shard of deep blue lying inches away.
Beyond it, something gleamed white. It was a branch stripped bare of its bark, a piece of wood bleached by the sun. But as her eyes focused on it, Esther realized what it was.
It was a bone. And attached to the end was a battered sneaker.
For as far as she could see, human remains littered the ground. There were hundreds of bones and bone fragments, most softened by exposure to near dust, animal teeth marks and knobbed ends alike eroded away to nothingness. All were human, still clad in the tattered remains of jeans and T-shirts, wrapped in moldering robes. Still others were fresher, heaped piles that stank of decay and were all but invisible beneath an oily black coating that shifted and shimmered in the early light. It was in fact flies, hundreds of thousands of them, busily eating, mating, laying eggs, and dying. They were responsible for the ceaseless drone that filled the air.
For this was the rumored place where the sick went when they had been Shunned from every community and driven away from the living. It was the place where people went when there was no more hope, no more life. It was the Valley of the Dead.
And Esther had ended up here as well.
She would run from it in terror, if she could. But she barely had the strength to breathe, much less move. As the first rays of sun began to heat and thicken the air around her, she felt the life force within her starting to ebb. She closed her eyes and saw a brilliant red that pulsed more and more faintly, in time with her heart.
But above the droning, Esther heard another noise, faint but real.
Something was in the bushes that lay beyond the highway's shoulder. Esther opened her eyes to see what it was, but it was still too dim. Then she heard it again.
Someone was coughing.
Esther raised her head. The sky was imperceptibly brighter; and by its modest light, she could make out a small figure huddled against a tree.
Shakily, Esther got to her feet. She stumbled closer and saw that it was a girl, wrapped in dirty robes, sitting up and watching her.
The two gazed at one another without speaking. Even in the dim light, Esther could see the extreme pallor of the girl's face, and the feverish light in her eyes. If she stood any closer, she knew she would also notice the telltale sores, the lesions that covered the face and limbs of the afflicted.
"Where are you from?"
The girl's voice was cracked and dry, like an autumn leaf. It was so tiny, Esther had to strain to hear her.
"Prin."
The girl nodded. "I was there once," she said. "A long time ago."
Esther hesitated. It was dangerous, she knew, to be close to someone who had the disease. In Prin, no one even spoke to the afflicted; once the lesions appeared, they were driven out of town, as Esther had been. But without food and water.
It made no sense to waste precious supplies on the dying. Yet now Esther reached into her bag. Taking out her water bottle, she uncapped it, and handed it over. The girl's eyebrows went up in a question and Esther nodded. Then the girl reached out her hands. When Esther touched them to help her lift the bottle, they were hot and papery.
The girl drank deeply, the muscles in her throat working. She drank until the bottle was nearly finished, then she pushed it aside and sighed.
"Thank you," she said. She sounded much, much better, but neither girl was fooled. "Where are you headed? You got a home?"
Esther shrugged. "I did."
The girl nodded. "It all lasts so short, don't it. Here and gone. Well"—her eyes flickered to the side, as if to indicate all of the horror that surrounded them—"there's a place for you here, if you want it."
She closed her eyes. Within moments, she was breathing deeply. In sleep, her face was eased of its pain and tension and Esther was surprised to see that she looked her age. She was no more than nine or ten.
Esther got to her feet. Then she put her backpack over her shoulder.
_It all lasts so short._
And no matter how bad things were, she was still alive.
The sun was now visible in the eastern sky. If she set off now, she should be back in Prin by evening.
## ELEVEN
AT THE SAME MOMENT IN PRIN, A FIGURE LAY EXPOSED TO THE MORNING sun, writhing in agony. Instinctively, Caleb grabbed the fiberglass shaft where it entered his shoulder. He could not risk having the arrowhead break off, lodging in his body. So he pulled it out in one swift motion and flung it away.
Then he realized his terrible mistake. Without the arrow to keep it plugged, the wound began to pump blood. Soon the front of Caleb's shirt appeared black and glistening, and dark crimson began to pool on the packed earth beneath him. Caleb's hands were stained red as he pressed hard against his chest, trying to stanch the flow that wouldn't stop.
It was so early, teams on an Excavation had not yet shown up. He was far from the main roads, miles from the center of Prin. His only hope was to somehow ride into town to get help.
But when Caleb took his hands from the wound, a fresh bout of blood bubbled up through the soaked and torn fabric. He pressed his hands over it, felt the fluttering pulse underneath.
Then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Across the parched field, past the metal tracks long overgrown with weeds, there was an abandoned truck that sagged on dusty wheels. Next to it, a small person was picking its way toward him.
It was not the hooded guard, the would-be assassin from the Source. It was bundled in a pale blue sheet, its head covered. Caleb felt a surge of relief. He tried to half rise.
"Esther!" he called.
"Don't be scared!" it responded, and his heart sank.
It was female, but not the one girl he desperately wanted to see. As she came nearer, a strange, heady smell, like that of a thousand flowers, seemed to shimmer from her. When she crouched next to Caleb and saw all the blood, the girl gasped.
"I didn't think he'd really do it," she murmured.
"Who? And who are you?"
The girl pushed the sheet away from her face. To Caleb's blurred vision, she was as unreal and exotic-looking as an animal from a dream: pale, with golden hair and strange blue eyes. He noticed the glittering rings on the girl's fingers, the chains and bangles that dangled from her slim wrists.
"You're from the Source," he said. "Levi's girl. Michal."
Caleb fumbled on the ground for the arrow, which was sticky with his blood. "Keep your distance."
Michal glanced at the arrow, then back at Caleb.
"I don't blame you if you don't trust me," she said. "I should have warned you."
"What do you mean?"
"After you left, I heard the guards talking. Levi told them if you weren't gone by yesterday, to come after you. I kept an eye on the guards. And this morning, when one of them left with a weapon, I followed him."
Caleb cut her off. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I need to get to town. Give me that."
At first, the girl looked baffled. Then Caleb seized the cloth that protected her and started tearing it. When she realized what he was doing, she helped him to unwrap it. Then she wadded up one piece and pressed it against the wound. He used the other strip to bind the bandage against his shoulder.
She got to her feet, having grabbed him under the arms. The effort of standing caused him to almost lose consciousness; his eyelids flickered in his pale face.
"Hold on," Michal told him; "this is going to hurt."
With difficulty, she managed to help hoist Caleb onto his bicycle seat. He was sweating and his teeth were gritted, but he said nothing.
Then Michal wheeled him across the scorched field, trying to avoid the stones and ruts. It was slow going; his weight made the bike difficult to steer and they had to stop every few feet to keep him from sliding off.
When they stopped for what felt like the hundredth time, Michal spoke up.
"It's too far," she said. "We won't make it."
The girl was clearly unused to physical exertion. Dressed in skimpy clothes, she was sweaty and red faced as she gasped for breath. Caleb knew she was right.
Desperate, he looked around. Visible in the distance was the Source, and a sudden idea came to him.
"You could bring me back supplies," he said. "Fresh water, bandages."
Michal frowned, staring at the ground, weighing something in her mind. Then she looked up.
"I should take you there," she said. "It'll be safer."
Caleb glanced at her sharply. "What do you mean?"
"I got my own room. Past the loading dock."
"What about the guards?"
Michal shook her head. "They got cameras everywhere. But when I left, I shut off the ones along the back. No one will notice if we hurry."
She seemed sincere. Yet it felt like insanity to Caleb to go to the very place where his intended executioner was.
He noticed that blood was soaking through the makeshift blue bandage. Plus, he was having trouble breathing and his skin felt cold and clammy. He had no choice but to trust Michal.
"All right," Caleb said finally.
As the sun rose, the two continued their slow and painstaking way across the field toward the gleaming white building in the distance.
When Caleb came to, it was dark and cool. For a moment, he had no idea where he was.
Then the memories came stuttering back as scattered and disjointed images.
_The sun blinding his eyes. The hooded guard appearing on the horizon, raising his hand. Then the split-second understanding of what was about to happen, when it was too late . . ._
He jolted upright, but a deep pain radiated from his upper chest, and he gasped. It hurt to breathe and he couldn't move his left shoulder.
"You're awake," said Michal.
She was sitting beside him, wringing a washcloth into a plastic basin. Without her jewelry and makeup, she looked years younger, like a little girl.
"Where am I?"
"You're in my room," she said. "Don't worry . . . no one never comes in here."
"How long have I been here?"
"I found you this morning. Now it's long past sundown."
She handed him a cup of water. As Caleb drank, he glanced at Michal's quarters. Everything was not only new, but impossibly clean: the bed, the silky quilts and pillows that covered it, the rug on the floor. The walls were decorated with glossy pictures hung in frames, not just images torn out of magazines; and scented candles burned on the bedside table. He had been changed into a fresh shirt and underneath it, he could feel the crackle of medical gauze and tape.
He shook his head. "You're his girl," he said. "Why are you doing this?"
Michal blushed and glanced down. "Levi disrespected me." Her voice was so low he could barely make out what she was saying. "He . . . he offered me to you. In front of everyone." When she looked up, Caleb was startled by the flash of rage in her eyes.
"He thinks I'm worthless," Michal said. "But I'm not."
She stood. "I heard what you said that day . . . that you're looking for your son. Well, a few months ago, somebody brung a baby here. It was real late, but I could hear it crying. Levi wouldn't let nobody near it. Not even me. But it's still here, somewhere. And I know how to find out for sure."
Caleb had been staring at her. Now he swung his legs to the ground. With difficulty, he stood and grabbed his pack.
"Show me," he said.
Moments later, they were outside her room. The girl moved through the darkened corridors and down a back stairwell. Aware of where the cameras were, Michal was careful to take a circuitous route, yet one that was not so unusual that it would arouse suspicion.
Caleb trailed a short distance behind. Each breath he drew was agony. Yet he ignored his discomfort and focused on navigating his way through the treacherous terrain without being seen.
Occasionally, Michal ran into a guard. When she did, she stopped to flirt with each one, touching the boy on the arm, laughing, leaning close. To Caleb, it was the oldest and most obvious trick in the world; nevertheless, he was impressed to see that it always worked. Each time, he was able to make his way past the guard, unnoticed.
Soon, he and the girl were in the basement. In the hallway, he waited behind a cluster of pipes that ran from floor to ceiling as Michal slipped ahead to a battered steel door that lay ajar, halfway down the hallway. A sign attached to it read SECURITY.
She disappeared behind it for a moment and reappeared, frowning. "There's supposed to be a guard here." Then, she made up her mind. "That's where you need to go. Look careful, but be quick. I'll be out here in case anyone shows up."
Caleb nodded, and slipped inside the room.
At first, he was puzzled by what he saw. It was a small and windowless office, a scuffed cement cube painted gray. A set of dusty metal shelves held pieces of forgotten equipment; above it, a clock on the wall read an eternal 2:47. In the center of the room was a large table that supported a bank of twenty or so small screens.
Caleb approached.
Each screen showed a flickering image in grainy black and white. It took him a moment to realize that these were different locations within the Source: the front door, the loading dock, the dark aisles with their endless shelves of crates, Levi's office. As Caleb leaned closer, he was stunned to see that these images were moving: _A guard walked past a closed door. Levi leaned back in his chair. Another guard carried a box across a room._
And in one screen, a toddler sat on the ground.
The image was so grainy, it was hard to make out. The child had its gaze downward and appeared to be studying something on the ground. Then it clapped its hands, laughing, and for an instant, raised its head.
Caleb gave an involuntary cry and leaned forward, his palm on the glass screen. If this were a window, he would smash through it now, to reach deep into the past, to grab hold of what he had once possessed and then lost.
His son.
Kai.
"Miss?"
Outside the security room, Michal jumped and whirled around. A guard stood in front of her, hulking and anonymous in his black hood. A moment ago, she had thought she heard something and went to investigate. She was unaware that in the echoing hallway, the sound was in fact coming from the other direction.
Badly startled, she laughed. Even to her ears, it sounded false and hollow.
"You scared me," she said. That much was true. She tried to sound playful and again, failed miserably.
"What are you doing down here?" Without being able to see his face, it was impossible to tell what the guard was thinking, feeling.
Her mind raced. "Levi sent me," she said at last. "He thought the camera on the front door was broken. He wanted to know if there's still a picture."
The guard grunted.
"Let's go check," he said, and turned to go.
She grabbed hold of his arm. "I already did," she said. Then she gave him a tremulous smile and tilted her head, opening her eyes wide and softening her expression.
It always worked.
But this time, something was wrong.
He stared into her face for a long moment. Then he pushed her away.
"What are you playing at?" She could see his eyes, small and suspicious, glinting through the holes in the fabric.
Michal drew herself up haughtily. "Nothing," she said.
She could feel his eyes on her back as she sauntered away. She only prayed they were talking loudly enough for Caleb to hear and that he had had time to take cover.
In truth, she was trembling with panic.
Caleb heard the voices in the hall and froze. He could not make out what was being said, but even so, he sensed the alarm in Michal's voice, pitched high and shrill.
She was talking that way to warn him.
There was nowhere to hide in the tiny room, so sparsely furnished with its table and equipment. Even as he glanced around, the dented metal door was swinging open and he ducked behind it, flattening himself against the wall. The moment the guard entered, Caleb managed to slip around the door.
He was not expecting to find two more of Levi's men in the narrow hallway.
They were on their way to some sort of break, their defenses down; one had his hood partly pushed up so he could tear into a piece of flatbread with his teeth. The other glanced up and for an astonished second, locked eyes with Caleb.
But Caleb was already on the attack.
Sprinting forward, his adrenaline overriding his pain, he raised one elbow and rammed it into the throat of the second guard. Choking, the boy staggered backward against the wall and slid to the floor with a thud.
The other guard, bread falling from his open mouth, let out a roar and rushed at Caleb. Caleb bent forward, digging his injured shoulder into the boy's gut. Grabbing his hood, Caleb flipped him over his head, slamming him on the floor. As he lay there, dazed, Caleb kicked at his holstered weapon, freeing it from his belt and sending it skittering across the floor and under a rusted radiator at the end of the hall.
Caleb had bought himself a few precious seconds, enough time to escape; but he forgot about the guard inside the security room, who now came barreling out, as hulking and enraged as a wild boar. Caleb scrabbled in his pack for anything that might stop him. The moment before the guard reached him, his fingers closed around something.
Perfect.
Caleb whirled his arm in a roundhouse punch and smashed a rock into the center of the guard's hooded face. There was an audible crack, and with a scream, the boy reeled backward, clutching his nose. As his legs buckled beneath him, it was easy to grab one knee, yank it hard, and twist; this sent him crashing to the ground. Blood spurted from his nostrils, splattering his robes and the cement floor.
Caleb was halfway down the hall, heading for the stairs. There was only one thought on his mind.
_Kai. Kai was alive and somewhere inside the Source._
But where? On the main floor, he ran through darkened aisles, surrounded on both sides by towering shelves stacked high with cardboard boxes. The pain in Caleb's shoulder pulsed powerfully in time with his heart; but the sensation seemed far away, as if it belonged to someone else.
Ahead of him and high above, he saw something glinting, light reflecting off glass from some distant source he couldn't yet place. Instinctively, he headed toward it.
Caleb reached the entrance to a wide ramp leading upward, with handrails on either side. It was a peculiar thing, unlike any he had ever seen before, almost like a mountain road inside a building. Caleb hesitated. Behind him, he could hear the heavy steps and distant shouts of Levi's guards. They were searching for him through the aisles, spreading out across the vast floor. Making up his mind, he raced up the surface and into the darkness.
At the end, he paused to get his bearings. By the echoing void that surrounded him, Caleb sensed he was now in a large and empty space, devoid of shelved goods. As he moved forward, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Soon he noticed a faint glow in the distance. He was in a cavernous room marked by giant rectangular columns, and he moved from one to the next until he reached the source of the light.
It came from a small, box-like space seemingly carved out of the back wall and exposed, doorless, to the larger room. Two guards stood on either side. The bottom half of its three walls seemed to be made of some battered metal; upward, they were thick chain link, the kind you would see on a fence or cage. Inside, Caleb could partly glimpse what seemed to be a desk; the light came from a lamp. Occasionally, a boy's hands moved into view and then away.
Caleb removed his backpack and took out his weapon. Then he loaded it with all the ammunition he had left: three rocks.
Placing it on his shoulder, he aimed meticulously; there was no room for error. He fired once, hitting one guard in the temple with a loud crack. As the boy sank to the floor, Caleb shot again, but this time, his aim was off; he only grazed the shoulder of the second. The guard looked up: Caleb followed with a third shot that cleanly hit the space between the boy's eyebrows, just above the bridge of his nose. With a grunt, he also dropped to the floor.
The room was now undefended as Caleb stood before its threshold.
Levi was behind his desk, papers strewn in front of him. Alone, the pale boy was paler still as he stared at his intruder. For an instant, fear and confusion flickered across his features. Then he acted as if nothing unusual was happening.
"Caleb," Levi said. "What are you—"
Caleb gave the other no opportunity to speak. Like a hawk after a mouse, he lunged across the wooden surface that separated them. Using both hands, he grabbed Levi's lapels and dragged him across the desk, scattering everything that lay in their path.
With newly found strength, Caleb lifted the other boy clear of the desk; he felt the black fabric strain and rip under his hands. Then he threw him down onto his back on the floor, straddling and pinning him to the cement.
" _Where is my son?_ " he shouted.
Levi's hand moved. He attempted to lift a meager weapon, a thin, decorative utensil with a blade too dull to cut but pointed enough to stab. Caleb seized the slender wrist and twisted it; with a cry, Levi dropped the weapon and it clattered to the ground.
The two remained locked, one under the other, both breathing hard. The pain in Caleb's shoulder had spread down his arm, weakening his grip; still, he did his best to ignore it.
Even in the losing position, Levi maintained his composure. Caleb had to restrain himself from crushing Levi's throat. Instead, he grabbed the small weapon on the ground beside him and placed the sharp tip against the side of the other boy's neck. He took grim pleasure in noting that the pale blue vein there was pulsing wildly, betraying the boy's show of cool.
Caleb pressed the tip of his knife in deeper. A bead of blood welled up, the bright red in shocking contrast to the white skin.
Through a fog of emotion, something clicked in his mind.
_The fire. His house, burning to the ground, with Miri trapped inside. A freakish mutant attack, as senseless as it was deadly._
_Kai, seized from his cradle. After so many months, most likely dead or gone forever._
_What Esther saw at the mutant camp: goods from the Source._
_And now, his baby, under this roof._
"You hired the mutants," Caleb said. "To kill my partner, to kill me. You paid them off, to steal my boy. And now, you have my son. And you still want to kill me."
Levi was watching him, saying nothing. It was like they were playing a game of dare.
"Why?" Caleb said. "Just tell me why."
When there was no reply, Caleb forced the blade even deeper into Levi's neck. Blood started to run, dripping down and pooling on the cement floor.
Levi stopped struggling. Ever practical, he knew there were to be no more secrets—not if he wished to live.
He looked away from Caleb and into the distance, into the past.
"I shouldn't be surprised you managed to survive," he said. "You were always the stronger one. You were always lucky. That's what this was about."
Caleb started, confused, and his hold on the knife wavered.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
Levi turned his gaze back to him. "That's why they gave me away. Because even though we were both so young, you were clearly the only one worth saving."
Caleb sat back, stunned. Part of his mind fought what he was hearing even as the words started to make a terrible sense.
"You're my brother," he said at last.
"I was," Levi said.
No longer pinned, the boy in black sat up and got to his feet. He managed to keep his poise and walk back to his desk.
"I don't blame them, really. At least not anymore." As he spoke, he took a handkerchief from a drawer and dabbed at the blood running down the side of his neck. "As you know, keeping one child fed is virtually impossible, let alone two. Why wouldn't our parents keep the stronger, younger boy and cast out the sickly, older one? That is what animals do, isn't it?"
Still on his knees, Caleb was finally able to answer.
"That's not what they told me," he said, his voice catching. Inwardly, he was reeling with disbelief; the idea that they were related was obscene, unthinkable. "They told me you were ill. They said you died years ago."
Levi smiled; it wasn't a pleasant sight.
"As far as our parents were concerned, I did die," he replied. "Happily for me, some animals behave better than others. Strangers pitied me, and took me in. I was never strong. But even as a small child, I knew how to use people, how to make them do what I wanted. Soon, I started to build a new family, to make friends. Or at least collect acquaintances."
As he spoke, Levi had begun to clear up the mess on his desk. He stacked papers, put his writing utensils back into their container, arranged files, restored order. Caleb, mesmerized by the boy's actions and words, made no move to stop him.
"Of course, between us, what I was really doing was cobbling together an army. Or would you call it a gang . . . a posse? Well, a group of boys, anyway, strong and I'll admit not very smart boys who nevertheless respect power almost as much as they like having their bellies filled on a regular basis. You've met some of them—or at least they've encountered you."
He gestured at the door, outside of which the two guards still lay motionless in a heap.
"They followed me when I came to Prin, five or six years ago," Levi said. "I always knew I was smart. But it wasn't until I came here that I learned how to read and improve myself. Suddenly, I understood what potential there was . . . not just for scrabbling together an existence day to day, but for real power. I planned how to break into this building, and with my army's help, I eventually succeeded."
His workspace orderly, Levi once more assumed a position of authority. He sat behind his desk.
"And my boys have been good scouts, as well," continued Levi. "They've brought me back things from not only Prin, but places far beyond. News, mostly. But also goods, trinkets, pretty little things they thought would amuse me. Like Michal."
Caleb looked up sharply and Levi laughed.
"But most important, my guards managed to find out what I _really_ wanted to know all these years . . . and that's what became of you."
Levi rubbed his temple. For a moment, his expression seemed haunted; traces of pain and longing appeared as deep lines etched around his mouth and eyes. Then they disappeared, like shadows.
"They knew where you were," he continued. "They told me you had partnered and had a son. Again, you were lucky. I've tried to father an heir many times, with different females. And yet I can't."
Levi's voice, normally so controlled, broke at this last statement. And as Caleb looked at his brother, he finally recognized the similarities in their faces, things he had sensed at their first meeting but couldn't name.
"Once I knew where you were," Levi was saying, "I decided to take from you everything, just as everything had been taken from me. Most important, I would have a son, a true heir, one linked to me by my own blood. One who will carry on what I'm about to achieve."
At last, Caleb found the strength to stand. He leaned forward on the desk in front of him. Only the whiteness of his knuckles revealed the intense emotions roiling inside of him. He looked into his brother's eyes.
"You can't have him," he said.
Levi nodded. Then he reached behind him to a panel embedded in the wall and pressed one of three buttons.
The room shook.
Caleb looked up, startled. Behind him, two large metal plates, the doors to the office that had been hidden in ceiling and floor, were sliding shut like jaws in a mouth; the two boys were quickly trapped in the small space.
Then, with a grinding of ancient gears, the entire room began to move. Through the wire mesh walls, it was clear that they were advancing down a dirty brick shaft.
"Use your head," Levi said. "The boy's much better off with me than he would be with you. What have you possibly got to offer him?"
"I'll kill you first," Caleb said.
"Go ahead," Levi said. "When the doors open, and they will any second now, you will be greeted by all my guards. I know you can handle a few mutants waving rocks; I'm not so sure what your chances will be against eighteen of my guards carrying Tasers. Especially if I'm dead. And where will _that_ leave the boy?"
With a sudden lurch, the room came to a halt and the huge doors behind Caleb began to grind open again.
"Forget the boy," Levi said. He sounded so sensible, even wise. Like a big brother, in fact. "It'll be easier for you—for everyone—if you're far away."
"I'm not going anywhere," Caleb said.
Now the doors opened. Four hooded guards burst in and surrounded Caleb. Levi held them off with a raised hand.
"Very well," he said. "I can't force you to leave. But I have my own plans, bigger plans than you can ever understand. I asked you to join me in them before, but you refused. So now I will not tolerate your interfering in them. You can stay if you want. But if you do, you are not to lift one finger to defend the town or its people from the mutants again. Do you understand?"
Taken aback, Caleb hesitated. "What I do is my own business."
Levi shrugged. "If you disobey me, no matter where you are, I will hear word of it from my boys. And the moment I do, I will kill your child. Do I make myself clear?"
Caleb was furious—and flabbergasted.
"You would do that . . . after all the trouble you went through to track him down? Even after you tell me you—"
But Levi cut him off. " _Do I make myself clear?_ "
Caleb nodded, uncomprehending. When Levi gave a signal his guards seized Caleb and started to drag him out. This time, he was reminded of the pain, which had returned worse than ever; he could not resist even if he wanted to.
In the main room, the guards dragged Caleb forward on his knees. He kept his face impassive, refusing to give them the satisfaction of knowing he was in agony. But he could not keep the blood from dripping from his shirt again, leaving a glistening red trail.
"Enjoying yourself?" one asked.
Caleb gritted his teeth as they yanked him around a bend. Ahead, he saw that the giant main door of the Source was open, revealing the tarry black sky.
The guards picked him up and threw him outside. Caleb landed hard on his hands and knees, scraping himself on gravel and broken glass.
His backpack and hat were thrown after him and landed nearby. Next to them fell pieces of his weapon. They had been ripped from each other and scattered, like a squirrel's bones from a cat's mouth.
Caleb was about to pick them up, when he sensed a guard standing above him.
"This is for the others," he said.
He was holding the weapon all the guards wore, the plastic box with two wires at the end that crackled with blue fire. Caleb was trying to crawl away when the guard rammed it into the small of his back. He screamed as a bolt of white-hot electricity erupted through his spine and exploded in his brain, seeming to set everything in his body on fire. He dropped to the ground, immobilized.
Nearly unconscious, he heard the three guards walk away, chuckling. The door of the Source creaked and then slammed shut.
Caleb lay there, motionless. It was as if his entire body had been scorched from within. He felt blood from his wound seeping into the hot, baked earth beneath him. It was all he could do to open his eyes. Still, the physical pain was nothing compared to his emotional anguish.
All along, it was one person who destroyed his family.
It wasn't the mutants after all. For months, he had blamed them; poisoned by his rage and hatred, he had worked obsessively to track them down and destroy them.
_Mutants._
For the first time, Caleb was struck by the ugly word, one he had used a thousand times without thinking, and he winced. For they, the variants, were nothing but pawns, poor and pathetic; had it not been them, Levi could have found someone else desperate and hungry enough to do his bidding.
The variants weren't responsible; it was his brother. The person who was in a real sense closest to him, his own flesh and blood, had set out to destroy him . . . and very nearly succeeded.
When Caleb thought of the months Levi must have taken to plan and carry out his campaign, his mind reeled. Levi's revenge was no impulsive act done in the heat of anger. It was carried out with clear eyes and cold calculation.
If what Levi said was true, he had been brutally wronged in childhood. Still, Caleb couldn't imagine lifting a hand or plotting against his own brother, especially a brother who was innocent of any wrongdoing.
Caleb's only sin was the fact of his birth.
Levi waited until they had gone. Then he got up and retrieved the small dagger that had dropped to the floor.
After wiping the blade clean, he placed it back on his desk, next to the matching penholder and leather blotter. He discovered that he was trembling and breathing fast, nearly hyperventilating. He had waited years for this moment, this long-anticipated revenge on his younger brother; and his victory was all the sweeter in that he had won it by his wits alone.
Caleb's days as the town's savior were over. Prin would need a new hero. And that would be easy enough to arrange.
Levi knew he should be glad. Yet, strangely, he was not.
One thought continued to nag at him: Somebody must have told Caleb about the boy. That meant someone, like his parents so long ago, must have betrayed him, someone he had trusted and housed and fed.
Levi called together a meeting of his guards.
Now he leaned against the wall, watching as one by one, his guards were tied to a steam pipe against the wall and questioned. Assisting in the interrogation was a tool from the gardening and patio aisle, a black wand filled with fuel. When a button was pressed, a small flame blossomed out from the top. As the smell of butane mixed with and then was overpowered by the stink of charred flesh, the basement of the Source echoed with screams that no one could hear from the outside.
Levi watched not because he enjoyed it; in fact, the constant weeping and pleading wore on his nerves. He had to make sure his instructions were being followed; he could not be certain that his guards would do their job. The very one asking questions, after all, would soon be the one interrogated by his peers.
While a clumsy system, it had always served its purpose before. Yet after an hour, no one had confessed to anything. By now, Levi was tired of not only their tears and moans, but the glimpses of their squinched and sweating faces, only partly hidden by their hoods. They looked as pink and helpless as cornered mice. It sickened him.
Exasperated and impatient, Levi was about to begin the cycle of interrogation once more, when a guard, shaking, separated himself from the group.
"I hate to say it . . ." His voice was almost inaudible. "But when the stranger come down to the basement, there was someone who came out of the security room only a second before." He swallowed hard. "It was your girl. And she was acting funny."
Levi stared at him. He felt almost faint with anger: the gall of the guard to try saving himself with such a blatant lie! Yet the more he thought about it, the more it made a hideous kind of sense. If he had been betrayed, why shouldn't the treachery be of the worst, most intimate kind? That was the story of his youth: Wasn't his childhood trust paid back with cruelty and abandonment? So now, wasn't it likely that he had been forsaken by the person who had always said she loved him?
Levi kept his voice calm, revealing nothing.
"You better be right."
He ended the session.
Levi returned to his office, any sense of jubilation forgotten. Yet as he sat alone, brooding, he felt strangely content. Once again, the world had proven itself to be the way he had always known it to be: faithless and cold. It was reassuring.
He would search Michal's room himself.
## TWELVE
BY DAWN, CALEB REACHED THE SCHOOL.
He fell against the front door and leaned upon it, breathing hard. It had taken nearly everything he had to walk back. He was light-headed from blood loss and thirst, and exhausted from fighting. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the lingering shock of the electrical current surging through his body.
He stumbled toward his schoolroom, and took two faltering steps over the threshold.
Then he saw her.
Esther looked thinner than ever, her face burned by the sun. His shock giving way to joy, he moved quickly to her. But he could only go so far before his legs buckled, and she had to catch him before he fell.
Caleb was almost unrecognizable: dusty and bloodied, shivering in the heat. He clung to her as if he was drowning, and she led him to his cot, where she eased him down. Then she fetched water to clean his wounds and for him to drink.
Esther's own journey here had been as much a hardship. Escaping from the Valley of the Dead, she had eventually found discarded robes in an abandoned van. She put them on over her clothes, and they both protected her from the sun and shielded her identity. The irony was not lost on her: Now that she was Shunned, she was finally dressed like one of the people she had long disdained and who had exiled her. By the time she reached the school late that evening, she was not able to remove the robes fast enough.
To her disappointment and misery, the schoolroom had been empty.
Esther was never good at waiting. Unable to sleep, she paced up and down the room all night, glancing out the window and door, listening in vain for the sound of Caleb's footsteps.
And now that she was alone with him, her relief was replaced by fury at the people who did this to him, as well as the need to cherish and make him well again. She had come here seeking his protection, but now she realized he needed hers just as badly.
"What happened?" she asked, once he had stopped drinking.
Caleb told her, haltingly. He spoke of seeing his child, the revelation of Levi's kinship, and his terrible retribution for their parents' neglect, hiring the mutants to carry out the dirty work he would not do himself. At last, when there was nothing more to say, he buried his face in his filthy hands.
And he cried.
Esther could not bear to see it. She alone understood that Caleb wore a tough exterior, a mask to protect what was important and precious inside; she knew this because it was what she did as well. For him to drop his guard meant that he no longer had the strength to fight off his despair, and she felt his pain as keenly as she felt her own.
She reached out and grabbed his hands.
They were icy cold and she wrapped her own hands around them, trying to give him her warmth and life, the way she knew variant shamans did to the dead. Her thumbs traced the ridges of blisters on his palms, the rough and bruised skin along his knuckles. Then she pressed her palms against his, and their fingers intertwined.
She raised her eyes to his face, at the stubble built up over days. Then she looked into his eyes and felt herself overwhelmed by his intense gaze, which mixed relief with gratitude and something more. As he caressed her hand, she lifted her fingertips to his face, tracing his cheek to his chin, then toward his lips.
"It's going to be all right," she whispered.
But something had shifted inside her, a strange new emotion moving into the other. Her desire to ease Caleb's suffering had been joined with another desire, one even more powerful, like two streams meeting and converging in a riverbed, mingling in a current against which she had no strength.
She had never known this feeling before.
Her fingers found his lips, which moved together and pressed against her fingertips, so softly she could hardly feel it. Then he kissed them again, this time harder; and at the pressure, she felt her body tremble.
"Caleb," she said, his name meaning everything she could not say.
Then their lips were on each other's, at first brushing there, like a question. Each applied more pressure, first quickly, then lingeringly. Esther closed her eyes, feeling only his mouth, his hands clasped in hers.
It was the first time she had ever kissed anyone. And it was different from how she imagined it would be, better, more dizzying.
Esther knew Caleb had been partnered, so he had kissed another, done more than kiss. And he was older than her, by more than a year. Yet she yearned to be closer to him and so she parted her lips, sending him a signal, indicating he could do the same. She was not certain but thought he understood, the way you did when someone opened a door, then walked away, saying it was safe to enter, you were allowed.
His tongue was softer than she expected, and warmer, and smooth. It filled her mouth, exploring, and she let it. Then she responded, pushing her own tongue to meet his, and each teased the other a little. It was the most delicate and intimate thing she could imagine, comparable to nothing.
Then the kiss ended. And as the two pulled away from one another and smiled bashfully, Esther suddenly felt so much older, years and years older, than she had only a few moments before.
As for Caleb, he was stunned by the tenderness he felt toward Esther. It was the first time he had touched anyone since his partner's death, the first time he had allowed himself to open up and care for anyone.
He put his hand on Esther's head and caressed her jagged hair. Esther must have cut it herself, he thought. It even resembled her, in a way: sharp in appearance but delicate to the touch.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
Unemotionally, she told him the facts of her Shunning, her journey south, and what she had encountered. She was now a fugitive in her own town; if she were discovered, it would mean certain death for her and anyone who harbored her. When she finished, Caleb knew they were on their own. They were deprived of the people they loved, the places they knew, protected by just each other and the brick and broken glass of the school.
"What do we do now?" she asked him.
"Stay here," he said.
"For how long?"
"Forever."
Yet, even as they huddled together, they could hear something happening outside. Without speaking, Caleb got to his feet, followed by Esther. Holding hands, they approached the window and stood there, looking out at the street with a new feeling of dread. For in the distance, they could hear a sound<|fim_middle|>; he must be able to see her now. But at that moment, Levi was leaning forward, helping someone from the street clamber up onto the car beside him.
"Levi!" By now, Sarah's voice was hoarse.
And then she froze.
Levi was pulling close a girl. She was young: impossibly, cruelly young, with golden hair and gleaming skin revealed by tight, thin clothing and set off by jewels that sparkled at her throat and on her arms. Levi paused to kiss her, then turned back to the crowd, accepting their cheers, their love.
Sarah could not breathe.
She let the crowd surge around and then past her. They were all screaming now. They were surrounding the car and rocking it back and forth, banging on the metal in rhythm. Laughing, Levi clung to the girl as they swayed perilously, as one with the crowd.
No one saw Sarah standing there. No one could sense the thoughts that whirled around and around in her head.
Levi had a girl: someone far younger than she was, someone far prettier. With a dull shock, Sarah realized, _And he probably always did._
Which meant that he had used her.
It was as simple as that, and as heartless. He sensed she could help him, and so he played off their shared history, manipulating her feelings for him. He lied to her to get what he needed.
Afterward, did he and the girl laugh at her behind her back?
Sarah thought about how she had behaved at her dinner with Levi, how she simpered and flattered, and her face burned at the memory; what she felt now was worse than any physical pain. And when she thought of her fantasies about becoming his partner, her dreams of sharing the Source with him, the shame was like a dagger twisting in her chest.
Humiliated and heartbroken, she turned away from the spectacle.
But she didn't go empty-handed.
She was still clutching the book, the one he wanted and which she had come so close to handing over. Her eyes hot and dry, Sarah vowed to herself that she would never give it to him now, not even if he were to beg for it on his knees.
It wasn't much comfort. But for now, it was all she had.
The celebration was nearly over. The townspeople began to head to work, walking in animated groups of twos and threes.
Among them, Rafe was nearly drunk with pride. He had actually shaken Levi's hand and congratulated him. And Levi even listened to him, a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, as he made some of his suggestions for how to improve worker efficiency in the Excavation. Levi seemed to take him—him, Rafe!—seriously, and this had softened his view of Levi as a heartless tyrant. Rafe now hoped there could be a good working relationship between Levi and the town, ideally with Rafe himself as a go-between. This would solidify his quest for another term as leader, if he could survive to run for it.
He became aware that farther down the street, a lone individual was leaning against a mailbox. It was someone who hadn't come to the rally and honored the town's hero; and at this thought, Rafe felt a wave of righteous indignation.
When he got closer, he saw it was Caleb.
Rafe's feeling ripened to one of outright disgust. He walked up to his former champion.
"Coward," he said.
People on either side of him looked up. Caleb didn't move.
Behind Rafe, a girl was hissing. "Why didn't you help us?" she yelled.
Then someone in the crowd bent to pick up an empty plastic bottle. He threw it at Caleb and it bounced off his chest.
"Coward!" he shouted. There were scattered boos and curses.
Another person tossed a clod of dirt at Caleb, who still didn't move. The fact that he didn't defend himself infuriated the townspeople. One at a time, then more and more, they stopped to pick things up from the ground and threw them at him: dented cans, sticks, a dead pigeon.
Soon, at least twenty townspeople surrounded Caleb, safe in both their numbers and their anonymity. Jeering, they pushed him one way, then the other.
"Not so brave now, are you?" said one; and another spat in his face.
Rafe felt emboldened enough to yank off his own hood, exposing his face.
"Why don't you just turn around and get out of town?" he yelled, loud enough for the people in the back of the mob to hear. "And you best not show your face here again, if you know what's good for you!"
For an instant, the brown eyes met his own; and Rafe recoiled, taken aback by what he saw. For Caleb seemed neither frightened nor ashamed. Instead, his eyes blazed with a hatred Rafe had never seen before.
The boy staggered backward, wishing he hadn't yelled quite so loudly. Yet he sensed that Caleb wasn't angry with him, or with the people of Prin.
Caleb turned and, without a word, walked away.
There was no sign of Esther, yet he refused to believe she was not somewhere nearby. Then he noticed a flicker of movement from an alley.
She was there, lurking in the shadows. Their eyes met; hers were full of questions. He was about to call to her, then stopped.
Several townspeople had caught up and flanked him. Caleb only had time to flash a warning to Esther before he was led away from her, in the direction of the highway.
## PART THREE
## THIRTEEN
ANOTHER TOWN MEETING WAS ABOUT TO START IN THE ABANDONED restaurant in the center of town, the one with the yellow arches looming high on their steel pole. However, unlike the last time, the air was festive and Rafe himself had trouble hiding his exultation.
Several days had passed since Levi and his men came to the town's rescue during the latest attack, and the event had had a miraculous and lasting effect. Since then, there had been no fresh outbreak of violence, no new, senseless ambush of the town and its work teams. No one had even seen a mutant anywhere near the town's limits. They seemed to have been frightened off for good, gone from the face of the earth.
With one glorious and decisive rout, Levi had put an end to the terror that had gripped Prin.
Now Rafe had different news to share, news that was even more exciting and significant. It was a plan he had had a hand in creating and helped make happen with his cleverness and quick thinking. It was crucial that as many of the townspeople as possible were present so he could explain it to them properly. He needed an enthusiastic majority of the town to vote the right way—namely, the way he wanted them to.
He had promised Levi nothing less.
By now, he had been invited to the Source no fewer than two times. He and Levi had established a good working relationship, he thought. It was almost too good to be true.
As he raised his hand for attention, it occurred to Rafe that his recent dealings with Levi reflected well on him. Right now, as everyone in the room began to settle, they were staring at him with open admiration and respect, something they had never done before.
It was an intoxicating feeling, one he wanted to last forever; and with any luck, it would.
If the townspeople did as he suggested, it would cement his relationship with Levi. Rafe wondered what this might mean for him: a new position at the Source? He might be made some sort of assistant, maybe even Levi's second-in-command; and the thought of this made him shiver.
As always, he spoke softly, so the others were forced to lean in. "As you know, I been in discussion with Levi these past few days," he began.
The room murmured its approval. After the decisive way Levi had vanquished the mutants, even those who once distrusted him were now his supporters. Rafe was happy to see that some of the biggest doubters—he ignored the inconvenient fact that he himself had been one of them—now banged on the laminated tabletops as enthusiastically as the others and stamped the ground with their sneakered feet.
"He's done made a very generous offer to us," he continued, "one that I helped him think up." It dawned on him that no one would know if he stretched the truth. "But I don't know how long he's willing to keep it on the table."
He paused, and as he knew they would, everyone stopped fidgeting and hung on his words.
"He's willing to buy Prin from us," he said at last, his voice unintentionally cracking with excitement. He cleared his throat and tried again. "He wants to take the whole mess right off our hands. What do you all think of that?"
There was a moment of silence as everyone in the room digested his words. Then at once, they all began talking.
"What do you mean, buy Prin?" called out a girl holding a younger child in her lap. "If he buys it, where we gonna live?"
"We need to find a new place, obviously," said Rafe. This was an easy question, one of the four or five he had anticipated. "Someplace bigger, better. Because let's face it—we done picked this whole area clean long ago. There ain't nothing left for us here, especially after the mutants smashed the place up."
"But they ain't attacked in a while," said one boy. "Maybe they done coming after us." He sounded hopeful.
Again, this was something Rafe had anticipated.
"They only stopped on account Levi drove them off," Rafe said. "How many times do you think he's willing to do that?"
"Heck, if he wants it, I say he can have it," a boy shouted, and several people laughed.
A girl raised her voice. "What's he gonna give us in return?"
"He's going to pay us in water and food supplies," said Rafe. Again, it was an easy question; the meeting was going exactly as he had hoped. "I did some hard bargaining and here's what we come up with. He's willing to give each household half a crate of water and six months' worth of flour, mixed grain, beans, and salt. I say that's more than fair . . . supplies like that should last all of you a long, long time."
Again, people started talking all at once, trying to shout each other down. Rafe was glad to see that most in the room were on his side: nodding their heads, arguing with their neighbors.
However, there were more than a few who looked like they had reservations about the idea. Some were shaking their heads in disagreement. Several were deep in thought, frowning and thinking hard. They worried him the most.
One of them was an older girl, who sat huddled on top of a table, her back against a window. She spoke up.
"If there's nothing left here in Prin, why does Levi want it so bad?"
Rafe hadn't thought of this. And, in truth, he didn't really know.
He ignored her and tried to steer the discussion back to more comfortable ground, questions he knew the answer to and wished more people were asking.
"This is the kind of opportunity we been waiting for," Rafe said, more loudly than he needed to. He could feel a trickle of sweat start to work its way down the back of his neck. "Now we can head out and find ourselves a new place, a place to build on. In fact, we can start sending scouts as soon as we vote tonight. We—"
"You didn't answer her question," someone called.
Before Rafe could pretend he didn't hear and continue talking over this interruption somehow, another voice called, "Answer her question!"
Rafe licked his lips, trying to think of a way to get control again. People were starting to murmur, and doubt and skepticism rippled across the faces in front of him.
Trying to stave off disaster, he screamed, "I told you, this deal ain't going to stay on the table unless we act fast! He's being more than generous . . . he don't have to offer us nothing! We should be grateful he even wants to do business with us in the first place!"
But by now, others were frowning and shaking their heads, looking at the girl who spoke.
"She's right," a boy said.
The others sitting at his table were nodding in agreement.
"Prin ain't much, but it's our home," added another girl. "Got to have a better reason to leave it than a few months' worth of food."
Rafe was stunned that the mood had so quickly shifted and he was at a loss as to how to regain the upper hand.
"I say, let's vote on it!" someone yelled, and there was general agreement.
Rafe swallowed hard, his mind reeling. Although he had called the meeting with a quick resolution in mind, that was now the last thing he wanted. If he allowed a vote, it was obvious which way it would go.
"Now, this was just an informational meeting," he said. "Just to get the facts out. We'll be scheduling a vote at a later time."
He adjourned the meeting soon afterward. He stood by the door, stopping people to cajole or joke with them, trying to recapture some of the enthusiasm he had seen just minutes before. But even he was forced to admit it was a lost cause.
Desperately, all he could think was: _What would Levi say?_
A lone figure neared the Excavation.
Disguised by her robes, Esther averted her face from those who passed.
She had spent difficult days and nights, trying not to be noticed in the streets she knew so well, sleeping in abandoned storefronts and surviving on whatever supplies she could steal. Throughout, she was haunted by what she had seen happen to Caleb. Why had she stood by as he was insulted and spat upon? For the thousandth time, she rebuked herself for not rushing forward when he was being led away.
She had not seen Caleb since.
Esther had to find him; but she could not risk being found within the town's limits. She knew that to ask for help was both foolhardy and dangerous. She would not have come to this Excavation site if she had had another choice.
Even though it was crowded with abandoned cars and trucks, the asphalt area surrounding the Source was too exposed; it would be suicide to approach that way. Instead, Esther took the indirect route, circling far around and through the back fields. Creeping through the tall grass in order not to make any rippling movement, she was able to get close to the trench. Soon, she could make out the rhythmic clank of shovels hitting dirt and rock and the voices of workers calling to one another.
Esther lay motionless in the grass, only a few feet from the pit, with her eyes shut so she could hear better. As the team members yelled to one another, she found she could identify who each person was and she started to keep a silent tally of who was there.
"Break time," called a voice. "Lunch."
With her belly pressed low to the ground, Esther listened to the clatter of tools being tossed aside as one by one, the workers pulled themselves up over the ledge. She pictured how they looked, with their robes caked with dirt and clay. Most of them were probably retrieving their nylon backpacks, stashed in the backseat of a car or truck to keep them safe from wild animals. Now she imagined them pulling out bottles of water and plastic containers of porridge and beans, yanking down their masks and chatting with each other as they headed off to the relative shade of a small copse of trees nearby.
The last person to leave the pit took a moment to sit on the edge. Esther heard him knock the soles of his sneakers together to dislodge the red clay. Having tracked who had left, she was fairly certain who it was. More important, she was desperate enough to take the chance.
"Eli," she whispered.
The boy looked up, and Esther waved him over. When he saw her, his face broke into an unbelieving smile beneath his mask.
"Esther?" he said.
With a quick glance to see if anyone else had noticed, Eli exited the trench. Esther had already retreated into the tall grass. He stooped low and made his way toward her through the sun-bleached weeds that grew as tall as his waist. When he reached her, she was kneeling, almost completely hidden by the towering blades. Eli took off his gloves and pulled down his mask so he could speak.
"What are you doing here?" Although he seemed overjoyed to see her, his face was creased with worry. "If the others catch sight of you—"
"I know." She took a deep breath, then plunged ahead. "I need to talk with you. It's real important."
A flush broke over Eli's face and he stared at the ground, smiling hard.
"I was hoping you'd make up your mind soon," he said, his voice husky. Then he cleared his throat and looked up at her. "I can talk to the others. That Rafe, he's just full of air. If I go see him first, he's bound to see reason."
Esther stared at him, confused.
"What?" she said.
As usual, Eli wasn't listening. He reached for her and, to Esther's shock, took her hand firmly in both of his.
"We'll get that sentence thrown out," he said. "We'll see this through together. I promise you that."
Esther jerked her hand away before she realized what she was doing; too late, she saw the look of bewildered hurt flash across his face. Inwardly, she cursed herself yet again for her clumsiness, her rashness.
"I'm . . . I'm sorry," she stammered. "I can't be your partner. But that's not why I'm here. I need your help."
Eli looked as if someone had hit him, hard, when he wasn't expecting it. He stared into the distance, shaking his head. Then he laughed, mirthlessly.
"Help?" he said. "You tell me you won't be my partner, but you still say you want my help?"
Esther swallowed hard. "I—I'm sorry," she stammered again. She had blundered every step of the way, she realized now.
Yet she still needed him, and any help he could provide.
"I'm sorry to have to ask you. But I don't know who else to go to. You're pretty much the only person in Prin who's ever been nice to me."
Eli snorted. "And look what good that's done me."
He was still gazing off, blinking hard, his eyes bright. Yet without looking at her, he seemed to be softening.
"What is it you need me to do?"
Esther was overwhelmed with relief.
"It's Levi," she said. "He's been using the variants somehow . . . getting them to attack the town so he looks like a hero."
Eli nodded, pursing his lips; he appeared to be thinking. "He wants to buy Prin," he said. "That's what Rafe says, anyhow."
"We can't let him," said Esther.
"Well, I don't know that it's such a bad thing, Levi buying us out," he said. "Prin ain't got much left for the rest of us, anyhow. If he wants it so bad, why shouldn't he have it?"
"It's not just about Prin," she said. "It's Caleb I'm worried about."
At the mention of his name, Eli's face froze.
"Caleb?" he repeated.
Esther sensed trouble, but she plunged ahead regardless. "I need you to find him for me. I know he's been told to get out of Prin. But Levi's got his baby and I know he won't leave until he gets him back. I'd look for him myself, but I can't."
But the boy cut her off and Esther was stunned by the fury in the otherwise mild brown eyes.
"Your friend," he said, spitting the words, "got what he deserved. He ain't nothing but a coward. If only I'd have known what kind of trash you liked, maybe I would have stayed clear of you from the beginning."
Esther put her hand on his shoulder; this time, he was the one to jerk away. "You played me for a fool for the last time."
He started walking away, the grass swishing in his wake.
"Eli!"
But he did not turn around and soon was gone.
Esther sighed and sank back on her heels. She knew there was only one person now she could possibly approach, the only one (save for Joseph, whom she loved but knew was helpless in an emergency) who would even speak to her.
And it was the last person she ever wanted to ask for anything.
The sun was dipping low in the western sky by the time Esther stood outside the ruined mansion.
Unable to ask where the Gleaning crews were working that day, she had been forced to figure it out herself. Without a bicycle, she had canvassed much of the town on foot, searching up one long street and then the next for the familiar, purple-framed bicycle parked outside.
It was agonizing and time-consuming work, all the more so because she had to stay alert to the sound of work teams riding past. Yet at last, she had found it, on a street of broad lawns and large houses that was once considered exclusive. It lay in a tangle of other bicycles that leaned against an enormous uprooted tree in a large yard overgrown with weeds.
Behind the bicycles curved a long circular driveway that seemed to have once been picked up and wrenched by massive hands. The house itself resembled the face of an old giant, broken and toothless and blind. All of the windows were shattered or missing, and vines grew freely over the gaping chasm where the roof once stood.
It was almost dark; soon, the Gleaning crew would emerge, get on their vehicles, and head home with their haul. Esther squatted behind a toppled tree, rested her aching legs, and listened.
She did not have to wait long.
She heard voices, and then a person in filthy robes appeared at the door. It was a girl, talking to someone behind her. Four others stepped out onto the sagging and dilapidated porch, carrying a few filled plastic bags. It was an insignificant haul for such a large house. Esther assumed this was not the first time the mansion had been Gleaned.
One of the five called to someone still inside. "You go ahead," Esther heard from the depths of the house. The four clipped their robes close to their legs and mounted their bicycles. Then, carrying their meager haul, they pedaled off into the twilight.
Moments later, Esther stood in the doorway.
She could not hear anything stirring; and she ventured in, picking her way along a makeshift path that wound its way through piles of sodden trash, dead leaves, and the broken remains of furniture. By the dim light, she could see she was standing in the ruins of what was once the entryway, with rooms leading off on the left and a hallway in front. Next to it loomed what was left of the stairway, disappearing into the murky darkness.
"Hello?" she called.
The cavernous living room was down two steps; by the far wall, the ceiling had partially collapsed, crushing two of the eight windows with heavy wooden beams. As Esther edged down the steps, something skittered through the trash and disappeared into the pile of bricks that was once the chimney.
She gave an involuntary start when she saw someone across the room. Whoever it was huddled against a destroyed sofa, its head bowed nearly to its knees.
"Sarah?" Esther called out.
There was no response. Then the masked figure raised its head.
"Esther?" said Sarah.
For an unguarded moment, the joy and disbelief were naked in the older girl's voice. Then she caught herself and, once more, assumed her usual fretful, nagging tone. "What are you _doing_ here?"
"I need to talk to you," replied Esther.
She had been steeling herself for this conversation, one she had a premonition would go badly, the way they always did. "It's important. What are you doing?"
Sarah made a dismissive gesture and stood, leaning against the wall. "I was just resting," she said. "Did the others see you? They were only here a moment ago. Oh, Esther, how could you risk coming back like this? Why don't you ever _think_?"
Already, Sarah was talking to Esther as if she were a little girl. And even though Esther struggled to stay calm and focus on what was important, she instead found herself clenching her fists so hard, her nails dug into her palms.
"I need you to help me," she said in a low voice.
"Help you?" said Sarah. She laughed, but the sound of it was mocking. "I tried to do that. Didn't I? I warned you again and again, and you refused to listen to me. So how can I help you now that you've been Shunned? It's too late, Esther. It's much too—"
Esther cut her off. "I need you to find Caleb for me."
At this, Sarah fell silent for several moments.
"I see," she said. "And was this why you came back to Prin?"
"Yes," said Esther. "I—"
"No, no," interrupted Sarah. "I want to make sure we both understand this. This was why you're risking not only your life . . . but my life, too. Because that's what you're doing here, dragging me into this. You're risking both of our lives to save that boy. That stranger." Her accusation stung Esther, who stood in silence, taking it. "When did he arrange all this with you? Before you left? Did he tell you he loved you, make promises to you?"
"No," muttered Esther. Her face was hot with anger and embarrassment. "It's not like that. He—"
"You know what I think is sad?" said Sarah, almost to herself. "That boys say anything they want just to get something. And girls always believe them." Her voice caught for an instant, but Esther could not tell if she was about to laugh or cry. "I can't say I blame you. He rides into town and impresses everybody, and we all fall for it. Then he deserts us when we need him the most. And now you're willing to risk everything just to save him."
Esther couldn't stand it anymore.
"Well, you know what _I_ think is sad?" she shouted. As much as she hated them, tears of anger stung her eyes and she tried in vain to wipe them away. "That for the first time in my life, I need help. And the only person I can ask is you."
Esther turned to go. But as she crossed the threshold, some impulse made her turn around and look back.
Her sister had pulled off the scarf that covered her face.
Esther was shocked by Sarah's appearance. The dim light threw long shadows across her features, making her look gaunt and ancient. Her cheeks were sunken and her normally rosy skin seemed gray. Only her eyes glittered in the dark, too brightly, like obsidian.
"Sarah? Are . . . are you all right?" Esther said.
Sarah's head dropped forward and she again sagged against the wall. Quickly, her younger sister was by her side, kneeling next to her. Esther reached out to touch Sarah's arm and recoiled at the heat coming off of it.
Her sister was burning up with fever.
"You're sick," she said stupidly. She tried to touch Sarah's forehead, but her sister pulled away.
"No," Sarah said. "I'll be all right. I just need to rest."
"Come on," said Esther. She was on her feet. "Let me get you home."
"I can't walk," whispered Sarah.
Esther reached down to pull her sister up by the hands, but she was unable to stand. Esther then grasped her under the arms and tried to hoist her to her feet; but as Sarah's arms were raised yet again, the sleeves of her robes fell back, revealing the bare skin.
That was when Esther noticed the lesion.
It was round and small, no bigger than a child's thumbnail, purple and pink and glistening halfway between Sarah's elbow and shoulder.
Esther recoiled, her hand to her mouth.
Both of them knew what that lesion represented, and the fever and the weakness, too. Soon Sarah would be found out and driven out of Prin.
Esther refused to think of it. All she knew was that right now, she had to get her sister home and into bed.
Without speaking, she reached to lift the older girl. But Sarah pulled away.
"Don't," she whispered. "I don't want you getting sick, too."
Esther hesitated. Then with a start, she thought of something that hadn't occurred to her before.
_She'd given her water to the dying girl on the highway, had even touched her hands. That was days ago. And yet she was still alive and well._
That decided it. Ignoring Sarah's protests, she half guided and half carried her outside, propping her on her bicycle seat. Then with her sister's arms wrapped weakly around her from behind, Esther gripped the handlebars and pedaled standing up. She had not gone half a mile before she was drenched with sweat—not only from exertion, but from the heat radiating off her sister's thin body, pressed against her back.
Once they were home and she had helped Sarah up the stairs and into bed, Esther went into the kitchen. She had never prepared so much as a cup of powdered milk before, and now she glanced in despair at the meaningless utensils and bags of grain and flour stacked on their shelves, the unopened bottles of water. She was relieved to find a plastic container that still had the remains of rice porridge in it, leftovers from the night before. Scraping it onto a clean plate, she carried that and a glass of water into her sister's room.
Sarah was sitting up in bed. In the soft glow of her bedside candle, she looked almost normal and for a moment, Esther felt an irrational burst of hope. She sat by her side, placing the glass into her hands.
"Here," she said, with false brightness. "You'll feel better."
But Sarah did not drink. Instead, she took the glass and played with it, turning it around and around in her hands as she stared down at the bedcovers. Then she looked at Esther.
"I let you down," she said. "I think I let down all of Prin." There was a tremor in her voice. Then she bit her lip and looked away.
"Don't talk," said Esther. It panicked her to hear her sister talk this way. She held the plate of porridge in her lap and now, she lifted a spoonful of the meal to Sarah's lips, to keep her from saying anything more. "Just eat something. You need to eat."
But Sarah was shaking her head.
"You were always so willful," she said. "You never trusted anyone, even when you were little. You hated this town. I thought you needed looking out for, no matter how much you despised me for it. Turns out I was the idiot all along."
Her eyes were shining, and Esther was horrified to see that that her older sister—always so proud, controlled, seemingly perfect—was on the verge of tears.
So many feelings came rushing at Esther, it was impossible to make sense of them.
"I never despised you," she stammered. "You're my sister. You're the smartest person I know. The smartest person in the whole town."
Again, Sarah shook her head. "Book smart, maybe," she said. "But I was stupid enough not to notice what was going on, right under my eyes." She gave a low laugh, but there was no warmth in the sound. "And now here you are, in the same place. We're two idiots, you and I."
"What do you mean?"
Her sister said nothing, her lips pressed together as she gazed at the wall. "We're two idiots," she repeated under her breath, as if to herself.
Esther suddenly understood.
_Levi. The way her sister always stuck up for him, even when others in town turned against him. Her dinner alone with him at the Source, and her strange behavior afterward. The fact that she had stayed single, despite the offers._
_Sarah spent her entire life waiting for the boy she had always described as just a friend from childhood, nothing more. And Esther was too young and self-involved to notice._
Now she felt a wave of sympathy overwhelm her, as well as a crushing sense of sorrow.
"Caleb's not like that," Esther said. "I don't know what happened between you and Levi. But Caleb is a good person."
She hesitated to tell her sister the truth about Levi, then made up her mind. "Levi is trying to do something with the town," she said. "What it is, I'm not sure. But he told Caleb if he interfered anymore, he'd kill his baby." As she spoke, she could feel her sister's eyes on her, wanting her words to be true.
Sarah took a moment to digest her sister's words. Then she was reaching beneath her, fumbling under her blanket and quilt, and Esther instantly set down the food, concerned. Sarah pulled something out from beneath the futon mattress.
"This was what Levi wanted all along," she said, "so it must be important somehow. It's yours, now."
She handed it over and Esther took it. It was a faded gray book that was speckled with mildew, with pages that were warped and rippled. Esther was ashamed to discover she could not even sound out the words on the cover.
But now was not the time to ask her sister.
Sarah's eyes were fluttering shut, and Esther knew enough to let her sleep. She removed the glass of water from her hand and set it on the bedside table, next to the uneaten porridge.
She blew out the candle and was about to exit, taking care to leave the door ajar. But she was called back by a sound.
Her sister had pulled herself up to a sitting position. The effort cost her; when Sarah spoke, Esther was forced to bend her ear close to her lips to make out the words.
"People say that criminals and outcasts sometimes go to the fenced-in fields off the road leading to town," Sarah whispered. "You could try there for Caleb. But it's dangerous. If you go, be careful."
Esther squeezed her sister's shoulder in thanks.
## FOURTEEN
ALONE IN THE NIGHT, CALEB PACED IN HIS CELL.
But it was not really a cell. He only felt he was a prisoner. He was in a wooden stall, one of dozens in a broken-down, one-story building several miles from the heart of Prin. The stall had a cement floor still covered with decayed straw. There was an oversize wooden door, the top half of which was made up of iron bars; it swung on heavy hinges onto a dusty passageway. Metal rods also formed a bin that was bolted against a wall, with wisps of ancient hay still clinging to it. A strange contraption made of strips of rotted leather and rusted rings hung from a hook on the wall.
Caleb gazed at a desolate view outside through a crack between two planks. The moon was full. By its light, he could just glimpse the large, circular track he crossed to get here three days ago. The dirt surface was rutted, cracked, and barren, baked to a hard pottery by the endless sun. It was one of three such fenced-in tracks, all surrounded by the remains of large structures open to the elements, with risers on different levels. These, too, had been mostly destroyed by weather, looters, and time, with few of the seats still intact.
If there was anything here that was once of value, it had long since been stolen. There was nothing, not even decent protection from the sun and rain. That was why few came, only a scattering of transients and outcasts, the violent and the mad, seeking shelter near town yet away from those who had Shunned them.
Caleb did not blame the citizens of Prin for what had happened. He understood the depth of their fear. He also knew what desperate and unrealistic hopes they held out for him from the start, what miracles they thought he could deliver.
When he recalled Levi, Caleb was filled with churning emotions, a strange mixture of both despair and rage. He had lost a sibling at the exact moment he had found him. Until Caleb was able to get his son back, his only family, really, was Esther.
At the thought of her, the touch of her lips, her stubbornness, her spirit, Caleb felt his heart contract painfully. If something were to happen to her as well, that would be unbearable.
When he first arrived at the shelter, Caleb was racked by frustration, desperate to search for her yet unable to do so. Instead, he attempted to question the others who shared the building, lost souls who were fleeing their own pursuers or demons.
"Have you seen her anywhere?" he asked one boy, describing Esther as best he could.
The boy was scrawny and squirrely, someone who seemed to harbor unsavory secrets. He lay in a bed of dirty straw, not bothering to get up.
"For sure I seen her," he said. His voice was hoarse as if he didn't talk much and what few teeth he had were black with rot.
"Is that right?" Caleb said. "Where?"
The boy sighed. His rancid breath traveled across the stall and Caleb winced. "What are you gonna give me if I tell?"
Whatever he said, it was certain to be a lie. Caleb felt his face turn to stone. "How about I let you live?" he whispered.
The boy just shrugged, giggling. "I ain't seen her, anyhow." Then he turned away and feigned sleep.
That night, Caleb tried to search for Esther himself. By the light of a new moon, he made it as far as the outskirts of Prin, checking alleys, abandoned buildings, and other places an outcast might favor. But he saw no one, and the effort cost him; his wound reopened, began to bleed. He barely made it back to his stall, falling onto his makeshift bed before losing consciousness.
In the dark, he saw scenes that were more like visions than dreams.
_Levi, holding a bow and arrow, walked alone down the streets, his eyes obscured by his mirrored sunglasses. A barren field, with a girl in red trying in vain to hide in the branches of a tree. A sky that grew dark overhead with the threat of poisoned rain._
Caleb awoke with a start.
It was still dark. With difficulty, he got to his knees, then his feet. He gazed through the crack yet again and was on guard. In the distance, he saw a flicker of movement.
Someone was approaching.
The intruder was covered in a white robe, its face concealed. Caleb flattened himself against the wall, steeling himself for an encounter. If anyone attempted to overpower him in order to steal his meager supplies, Caleb would lose; he didn't have the strength to fight back. Still, he could bluff and attempt to intimidate whoever it was by staring him down first.
The person entered the building and left his sight.
Caleb moved to the door and looked out through its bars. Whoever it was headed down the hall, pulling its hood.
Esther.
Caleb stepped out from his cell. She froze for a second. Then the tension in her face and body melted as she ran to him. Their embrace was awkward at first, because of the bulky shoulder bag Esther wore; she shoved it aside so she could go into his arms. The two headed back through his barred door, into the cool darkness.
There the moonlight streamed in through the cracks in the walls and a jagged hole in the ceiling, casting long shadows. Esther could not remove her despised robes quickly enough. Caleb tugged the door closed behind them. It barely swung shut. Should anyone else pass, it was all the privacy they were going to have.
He glanced at her and cocked an eyebrow in a silent question. Esther realized that in the moonlight, he could see that her dirty face was streaked with tears.
"It's my sister . . ." she started to say, then fell silent.
She rubbed her sleeve across her eyes.
"Go ahead," he said. "You can tell me."
So Esther did. As she spoke, she felt that something long dammed up was breaking loose, sweeping away everything in its path. She talked not only of her sister's sickness; she talked about Sarah herself, about their long and painful relationship, full of recrimination on one side and resentment on the other. And she talked about the pain of beginning to understand who her sister was at the moment she was about to lose her.
When she finished speaking, Esther felt spent, drained of all emotion. Yet she also felt at peace, and forgiven somehow. She realized with a start that Caleb, too, had just lost a sibling. She knew that each was all the other had.
It was as if they were sharing the same thought.
"I love you," Caleb said.
Esther started. It was the first time she had heard the words from another human being. They changed things, these words, just as her first kiss had. There would be no returning to a world before the words were said.
"I love you, too," she replied.
There was a pause. Then Esther looked around, seeking something. She shrugged. She gripped the bottom of her red sweatshirt and tore a long strip of fabric from its hem. Then she looked at Caleb.
He smiled and nodded once. Even as Esther took the ragged piece of cloth and tied it around her right wrist, he was reaching over to take the other end. He knotted it around his right wrist, as well.
"I promise to be true to you and always be your friend," he said.
"And I promise to comfort and support you in all things," said Esther.
It was the partnering ceremony. It went beyond law and ritual, custom and decree. It was perhaps the only thing in their shattered world that was holy.
Their palms grew moist, the cord around their wrists tight and hot. The moonlight poured down on them. Held in place, otherwise unmoving, they kissed again, this time more deeply.
Esther found she was trembling. Then Caleb reached down and stripped the cord off both of their wrists, and tossed it aside. Together, the two lowered themselves to the ancient straw that littered the floor. Soon his shirt landed on top of the cord, and so did the rest of their clothes.
The two explored each other, gently at first, with hands and lips and tongues. Esther found the arrow wound high on Caleb's shoulder and kissed it.
But their urgency grew, the straw sticking to them. When Caleb entered her, Esther felt pain, shocking and sharp, and she cried out; but it dissolved into a swirl of other, greater sensations and emotions. Soon, they were moving together, awkwardly, then expertly, bright with sweat.
At last, the two lay still, naked and curled, their bodies gleaming white in the darkness, nearly indistinguishable from each other.
Esther found Caleb's hand in the dark and he intertwined his fingers with hers.
"This is forever," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "Forever."
At dawn, Caleb awoke.
Esther was huddled against him, breathing through her open mouth. He disentangled himself from her and stood. The day was already getting hot; he reached down and draped his shirt over her small, sleeping form.
He was drinking from one of the plastic jugs of water she had brought when he noticed a book lying in her messenger bag. Esther had mentioned it last night, when she spoke of her sister. He picked it up and squinted to read the title.
Across the room, Esther stirred. Caleb realized he had been reading out loud, sounding out the syllables one by one. She sat up when she saw what he was doing.
"That's Sarah's book," said Esther, her voice fuzzy with sleep. "The one she found for Levi."
Hearing his brother's name, Caleb recalled the stacks of paper on Levi's desk and his easy ability with written words; he felt a pang at his own ignorance. Yet as he sat next to Esther and leafed with her through the book, he was puzzled to see that it featured more than mere text. The pages were filled with rows of numbers, dense and tiny like black ants, next to strange, abstract images: squiggling lines and shaded areas.
"Why'd he want this?" he asked, bewildered.
Esther shrugged. She had pulled on Caleb's shirt and now knelt behind him, draping her arms around his bare shoulders, touching and exploring his hairless chest, the chest of her partner. He kissed and teasingly bit her hand, which she yanked away, pretending he hurt her. Then he returned to the book.
"Why would Levi want this?" he repeated.
She leaned over his shoulder to look. "Well, it must have something to do with Prin," she said. "Right?"
"I guess." Caleb flipped to other pages now. Up until now he had only seen crudely drawn diagrams, like the ones on Levi's wall. "You think these are maps?"
Esther shrugged. "If they are . . . they might be of Prin." She pointed. "Look, that could be the old lake. And those could be the mountains."
"So he wants to find something here?"
Caleb recalled Levi's words when they first met, the thing he hinted at as they stood watching the townspeople toiling beneath them at the Excavation.
_They're digging for something_. _Something important. Even precious._
Esther was furrowing her brow. "I always wondered about the jobs," she said. "Not the Harvesting. That makes sense, I guess, on account he needs gas for the Source. But that doesn't explain the other jobs. They say the Gleaning is to find stuff that's worth trading. But everyone knows that all the buildings and houses around here were emptied years ago. So maybe that's not what it's really for. Maybe it's so that people end up looking for something else. But what?"
"Like the Excavation," said Caleb. "Everybody is digging all across town. But nobody knows what they're looking for, either."
"Maybe this book tells him where it is, and that's why he wants it so bad."
The two continued flipping through the pages with greater urgency. Yet neither could read more than a few words, and the drawings had grown too confusing. They were so close and yet could go no further.
Frustrated, Caleb closed the cover. Then he placed the book back in Esther's bag.
The night before, both he and Esther had felt that the other was his or her missing piece. Together, they formed a whole that was invincible; nothing and no one else would ever be needed by either of them again. Now he realized that they were only two people, limited in both power and knowledge and ostracized from everyone else. And their opponent had never been more powerful.
But in the face of such hopelessness, Caleb realized there was also nothing to lose. There was still one thing he could try to do—the most important thing of all.
"I have to get my son," he said. "I got a feeling this is my last chance."
He started to stand, but Esther held him back.
"You can't," she said. "You're not strong enough."
It was true. Even the act of standing was exhausting and his left arm hung weak and immobile, useless in a battle. "Besides," Esther continued, "everybody in Prin thinks you're the enemy now. You'll never make it past the town, much less into the Source."
"I'll take the risk," he said.
"No," Esther said. " _I_ will."
Caleb smiled despite himself; Esther was brave and impulsive in equal measure. "That's crazy. The town will be on the lookout for you, too. And you've never even been inside the Source."
"So? You can tell me where I should look."
"But I don't even know where they got him hidden."
"I can search for him, then. I'm good at that." When Caleb hesitated, Esther pressed her point. "Whoever goes has to be able to move fast, without being seen. And maybe I don't know the Source, but I know Prin. It should be me."
Still, Caleb hesitated. He thought about the labyrinthine layout of the Source and Levi's boys posted on every floor. They both knew how dangerous the guards could be. "But you're no good at fighting," he said.
She shook her head. "I know. But I'm just going to get in, find him, and get him out without being seen. There won't be any fighting."
Caleb touched her cheek and then gave a brief nod.
When he thought about it later, Caleb wondered why he agreed. Yet at that moment, he trusted her absolutely.
"The Source seems to have three levels," he said. With effort, he squatted down to push aside the straw by their feet; then he drew his own inexpert map in the dust with his finger. "The goods are mostly on the main level. Levi has a girl, Michal. That's where her room is, around the back. It's near the loading dock, the other entrance. Your best approach is probably through there, though there's a kind of eye that can watch your movements. In fact, they're all over the place. There's a basement, and guards are everywhere. The top floor is mostly empty, although Levi's office can move up and down between all of them."
Esther listened as she pulled on her own shirt and jeans, and laced her sneakers.
"I don't know where they're keeping Kai," he continued. "They may have moved him since they know I saw something. I think your best bet is either the ground floor, off to the side. Or else the basement."
Esther nodded. She had taken the food and most of the water out of the messenger bag for him. She kept the rest, looping the shoulder strap across her chest. Then, atop it all, she pulled back on the robes that obscured who she was.
The last thing she did was pick up the strip of fabric from the floor, the partnering cloth. She tore it in two, wound one side into a ribbon and tied it around her wrist.
Caleb did the same, on the opposite hand as hers. Then he kissed her once, hard. He didn't say, "Be careful"; he felt he didn't need to. Yet after Esther was gone, as he lay there, he wished he had. Closing his eyes, he thought it over and over, like a prayer.
Esther ditched Caleb's bike on a scrubby hill behind the Source. She lay as flat as possible on the ridge, just out of sight, as she considered the imposing building. She was facing the back entrance at the loading dock. In contrast to the massive electrified front door, this one was small and poorly patrolled with only one guard on watch.
She had assumed she would be able to scale the wall and get in from the roof somehow; but now she was here, she realized that her plan was unworkable. The structure was too enormous and utterly smooth, with no apparent footholds: no one, not even the most skilled variant, could possibly get in that way. While her impulsiveness had always served her in the past, Esther realized that now there was too much at stake to be hotheaded. Instead, she would have to slow down, think everything through, and exploit whatever opportunities she could find.
To strategize, as Skar would say.
It felt like years had passed since she and Skar had played Shelter amid these scorched fields, hiding from the work teams as her friend taught her variants' skills. Esther felt she carried the spirits of both Skar and Caleb inside of her and was being guided by their love.
As if he could hear her thoughts, the guard looked over in her direction. Esther froze. He noticed nothing and turned away again. Restless, he now sat down on the metal steps that led to the Source's entrance and reached under his black hood to wipe his brow.
_Let nothing go to waste,_ Skar always told her. _Use what is available._
She glanced around, frustrated. Scattered in the dead, bleached grass were pebbles and twigs, but they were too small to hurl. Nearby, she found a crushed soda can, a broken pair of glasses, a dusty bottle cap. It was all trash, the usual insignificant garbage that cluttered the fields and streets of Prin. How could she possibly find any use for objects that were so worthless?
Esther remembered another thing Skar used to say, and it made her smile: _Make a bad thing into a good thing_. Certainly, everything about her current situation was a bad thing: the fact that she was alone, outnumbered, unarmed. Moreover, it was unusually hot even though it was early morning, with waves of heat billowing over the dusty parking lot. Although she rubbed her sleeve across her face, sweat dripped down, stinging her eyes.
But that might be the kind of bad thing Skar was talking about.
Prin's blazing sun.
Esther's mind raced. She might be able to find something that could reflect its rays, something that could blind the guard. Yet even as she considered it, she was already discarding this plan; he wouldn't stay blinded long enough for her to sneak by.
But another idea was forming in her mind.
Making sure to keep her profile low, Esther began to collect the detritus around her, scraping it off the ground: dry leaves, dead grass, papery scraps of bark. This she cobbled together into a scraggly pile.
She didn't have matches or a firestarter on her; those were precious items that were only kept at home. But she did have the broken pair of glasses. Esther picked them up and used a piece of her sweatshirt to rub the dirt off the one lens that wasn't shattered. When she raised it to her eye, she was satisfied to see how well it magnified.
She hoped it was strong enough.
She held it above the pile of tinder, moving it up and down by minute degrees until she was able to focus a ray of sun into a tight and tiny beam of heat. Then she waited.
A feather of smoke began to curl up, and Esther's hope grew. But it was too early to celebrate. So she kept the speck of heat trained on the pile as she began to gently blow on it. Before long, a small flame flickered upward, which she fed with more dead leaves and dried grass. The dry bed beneath it ignited and fire began to spread. The flames were about a handspan high now, but it was only when they were strong enough to leap to a nearby patch of dead grass that Esther crawled away on her belly, putting as much distance between herself and the flames while staying as close to the Source as she could.
Then she stopped and peered over the ridge.
The guard was watching the ground by his feet, still paying no attention to his surroundings. But after a few moments, he lifted his head and seemed to sniff the air.
He was mostly faced away from her; Esther couldn't tell from his stance whether he was annoyed by the distraction or happy to have something to do. In any case, he lumbered to his feet. Then he started walking toward the fire.
Esther sprang to her feet and, keeping low, ran farther along the ridge, increasing the distance between herself and the fire. Then she breached the crest of the ridge and, still running low to the ground, made for the Source and the loading-dock door.
Above it, she saw a strange metal box attached to a strut. This had to be one of the "eyes" Caleb warned her about. Praying that she was coming in at too sharp an angle to be detected and moving too fast for anyone to notice even if she was, she bolted up the cement steps two at a time and disappeared into the entrance, without an interruption. The door banged behind her, and the huge, dark, and silent interior seemed to swallow her whole.
Inside, Esther avoided any open areas and stayed close to the heavily stocked shelves, hiding in their shadows. She paused to get her bearings, remembering the map that Caleb drew. After she checked the ground level, she would try to make her way downstairs.
Esther ran as she was taught, noiselessly and low to the ground, keeping both hands in front of and beside her. She slowed down as she passed a door to what had to be the room of Levi's girl; it was empty. Beyond it, there were more enclosed spaces, as well as the remains of an eating area. She saw that all of these places were empty as well; and so she veered off into the main room again, back into the dim jungle of tall shelves stacked with cartons, trying to stay out of the sight of the mechanical eyes, wherever they might have been.
She was not prepared for the barbed wire.
There was a loud ripping sound as Esther was yanked backward. She had run too close to the shelves and had been caught by one of the giant coils of barbed wire that surrounded them, the sharp metal slashing through and catching in her robe. Cursing to herself, she backed up, reaching out with one hand to try to untangle herself from the cruel razor edges. Far off, she could hear the sound of a guard saying something in a loud voice, then laughing. She didn't know if he was approaching but she needed to free herself at once.
Yet it was hard enough to do without having to hurry. Esther tried to jerk free of the wire, not realizing it was now snagged on her sleeve. As she pulled away, tearing the garment, the entire coiled length unexpectedly came with her, knocking over the huge cardboard crate perched on the edge of a shelf.
Esther winced, waiting for the crash.
But instead of thundering to the ground, the carton fell without a sound. Puzzled, Esther pushed it with her foot. Then she stooped to lift it. Although the crate was large enough to hold four of her, it was so light, she could pick it up with one hand. And it was unsealed, its tabs flapping open.
The box was empty.
Now Esther was confused. She slid out another carton on the shelf, one that was located behind the first, a giant crate marked GOYA: DRY ROMAN BEANS: 160 UNITS. This box was also light enough to be pulled out with ease and had been opened.
It was empty.
Esther pulled down another carton sitting on the shelf above it, and another, and another. She turned and, taking care to avoid the barbed wire, pulled down the boxes behind her, along the entire row. The crates were weightless, bumping into each other like playthings for a giant baby.
Esther stood still in the dim aisle, the giant boxes piled up on the ground around her. Her mind was racing. She could not make sense of the fact that she was in the Source, surrounded by the cardboard crates that were filled with the food and water that kept Prin alive.
And yet they were all empty.
But she had no time to investigate further. Behind her, she heard the sounds of more guards talking, getting closer. Esther had made such a mess, it was only a matter of time before her presence was noticed. Making up her mind, she added to the pile, removing the ripped robes that could only slow her down. She had to get to the basement while she still had the opportunity. She took off again before she heard something that made her stop in her tracks.
A faint, high-pitched cry echoed in the darkness. Was she imagining it? No. Although she had only heard it a few times in her life, Esther knew what it was.
It was the sound of a baby crying.
It came from somewhere across the huge room and grew louder as Esther approached.
In a far corner of the main floor, she could make out two open doorways side by side in a recessed area behind a cement partition. Stopping in the shadows of a nearby shelf of boxed electronics, Esther squinted at the faded images painted on the wall beside the two doorways. The one to the right showed a crude image of a human wearing a short robe; the word WOMEN was painted below it. In the other, a similar figure was wearing pants; and below it was painted the word MEN.
The wails seemed to be coming from one of the two doors.
She assumed it was the entrance to the right; it was flanked by two hooded guards, weapons displayed in their belts. Again, Esther sorted through her options. The guards were bigger and heavier than she was, not to mention they were armed and she was not; yet with luck combined with the element of surprise, she might be able to waylay one and then get past the other. But once inside, what then? They would certainly come after her and there would be no escape. There was no way to tell if the room had another exit; she could easily be cornered.
Then her problem was solved for her.
A strange sound crackled through the air and one of the guards pulled out a black plastic device attached to his belt. "Security breach," it rasped. "Everyone, report to Section A-Seventeen. Aisle Five."
Esther ducked deeper into the shadows as the two guards, pulling out their weapons, lumbered past.
For the moment, the room was unguarded. Esther darted through the door. Inside, the child's cries were deafening, echoing off the hard interior. Everything in the room was white tile, gray metal, steel, glass. To one side was a series of stalls, each with a swinging door that opened on a built-in seat with a hollowed center. Old-fashioned and ridiculous, the seat was the ancient indoor waste removal contraption she had seen many times before, although rarely so many at once. Across from them was a bank of matching white sinks. Above that, Esther saw herself reflected in a long mirror that stretched down the wall.
And at the end of the room, standing in a wooden pen and sobbing, was a small boy.
Kai.
Esther started toward him.
Then she felt rough hands seize her from behind.
That night, the spill of electric lights revealed a short boy standing outside the massive front door of the Source. In days past, the building seemed to Rafe a sort of blind giant, a faceless god that watched over him and others.
All that, of course, had changed.
This was now his third visit, and so he was comfortable on its threshold, bathed in its welcoming shadows. That was not to say he was complacent about being there: No, it never ceased to give him a thrill to be near the impressive structure, and part of the elite allowed to enter.
Still, today, he was here on business, so he had to temper his excitement.
Levi had called him here so Rafe could give the results of the town meeting. And although Rafe knew this might be a _slightly_ difficult report to present, he was confident he could do it without issue. He mumbled under his breath, practicing what he intended to say. He changed his words and intonation again and again; he even imitated the facial expressions and hand gestures he would use. Then he looked up.
A hooded guard stood before him at the giant door. Through mirrored sunglasses, he stared impassively ahead.
"Excuse me?" Rafe said. "I'm here for the meeting."
There was a long silence. "Who with?" the guard said.
"Well, with Levi."
The sunglasses and mask could not hide the look of disbelief on the guard's face. Rafe made a mental note to mention this rude lackey to Levi, who he was sure would have something to say about it.
"Yes," Rafe said condescendingly. "Levi asked me to come. Tell him Rafe is here."
At this, the guard's eyes narrowed. As if from a great distance, the name rang a dim bell. "Stay here," the guard said. He disappeared behind the massive door, which slammed shut.
Rafe told himself to be patient. Yet many minutes crept by. When the door reopened, Rafe was soaked with sweat.
"Okay," the guard said. Rafe patted some of the sweat from his face and adjusted his robes. The guard ushered him into the darkness, despite Rafe's repeated insistence that he knew the way. Annoyed, he comforted himself with the thought that the insubordinate fool would one day be working for _him_.
Soon they were standing in front of the small office, lit by an overhead bulb. It shone on the head and shoulders of one sitting alone at a large desk, the features in his pale face cast deep in shadow.
"Levi," Rafe said. Aware that some more formal salutation might be required of him, he bowed at the waist.
There was no response right away.
"Hello, Rafe," Levi replied at last. "Thank you for coming."
Rafe gave a sidelong smirk toward the guard, as if to say, _what did I tell you?_ Then, with confidence, he turned back to Levi and plunged ahead with his prepared speech.
"I passed along your generous offer to the townspeople," Rafe said. "And naturally, it was way more than they were expecting. Frankly, Levi, between me and you, it was way more than they deserve. But surely, you must have taken that into account when you—"
"Get to it," whispered the guard.
"I'm happy to say," Rafe said, shifting quickly, "that there was widespread rejoicing. Just like you wanted, and just like I promised." He took a deep breath, aware that this next bit was the tricky part. "That being said, I think they were a little . . . well, let's just say they were overwhelmed by the offer. Don't get me wrong. They're with you all the way. Only they just need a little more time to make it official."
Rafe smiled, confident that this explanation would suffice. There was a seemingly endless pause, while he kept smiling. Soon the muscles on his face started to feel strained.
Levi murmured something, and Rafe leaned forward, cupping an ear. "Excuse me?"
Too late, Rafe realized that the words were addressed not to him but to the guard by his side. The hooded boy reached for something at his belt.
Then a lightning bolt hit Rafe's lower spine, rocketing through his body before it exploded out of his limbs and head at the same time. Rafe was facedown on the floor, convulsing in agony, before he passed out.
As the body was dragged from his sight, Levi paced, deep in thought. He was not surprised by the boy's incompetence, nor was he flattered by his cringing servility. As mildly entertaining as it was to see the expression on that idiot's face change, Levi was far more concerned about the threat to his plan.
Levi had given the people of Prin new reason to respect him. Then he had made them a fair offer to relinquish the town. Of course, he could never have paid them what he promised, but, most important, he had tried to make them part of the decision.
It hadn't worked. He could wait no longer for Sarah to deliver the book. The Excavation and Gleaning had both proven to be worthless expenditures. Shortages had grown so dire, he even heard there was a break-in at the Source earlier that day. Levi had no time to deal with the would-be thief, a girl from town, and only hoped the news didn't get out.
Levi was beset on every side by betrayal and ineptitude, while options faded and resources dwindled.
He had been counting down to this moment ever since he had taken over the Source, nearly six years ago; now, there was no more time to spare. Over time, he had devised a Plan B, a final solution that he hoped not to use. He feared it would be too unwieldy to execute, too cumbersome, and would strain the capacity of his team of guards to the breaking point. Now there was simply no choice.
Fleetingly, he hoped there wouldn't be too much bloodshed. Not that he cared about the people of Prin. But Levi knew that blood had a way of riling up even the most complacent of animals.
Still, if he had to, he was willing to risk chaos.
## FIFTEEN
IT BEGAN EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, BEFORE THE SUN HAD EVEN RISEN.
At each dwelling, it was the same routine. There was a discreet knock at the door; two hooded guards from the Source stood outside. They carried no weapons on their belts, and they were courteous, even bland. One of them requested that the inhabitants leave their home and come with them. To the inevitable questions, the answers were always the same, vague yet reassuring at the same time:
_It's Levi's idea. It's for your own good. Levi will explain everything shortly. There is no need to bring anything. You will be returning home soon._
A few had more pointed questions. One or two even attempted to refuse and in private, they were more forcibly persuaded. Yet while they were confused and half asleep, most of the people of Prin felt that they could trust Levi. Docile and obedient, they came outside without a fuss, closing their doors behind them.
It was only when they were outside did some of the townspeople start to feel uneasy.
A long line of their neighbors snaked its way down the main street of Prin. As more and more people were roused from their sleep and brought outdoors, they were shepherded into the line by the hooded guards.
There were a handful of young children, some still asleep, carried by parent or guardian or trailing behind by the hand. One guard stood to the side and handed them toys from the Source: pinwheels, soap-bubble bottles with built-in wands, dolls still in their plastic wrapping. In the silence, there were delighted exclamations and sounds of laughter as the children opened their gifts and played with them.
"How long will this take?" asked a townsperson.
"Not long," replied a guard. "Get back in line."
In fact, the walk took longer than anyone expected, much longer, as they passed the town limits and continued west along a two-lane highway surrounded by the remains of a forest. Soon, the youngest started to cry, as the novelty of the toys wore off and the discomfort of the forced march began to mount. By now, the sun was well up in the sky. There was no water, no shade. Nearly everyone was still in their sleeping clothes and had no protection from the burning heat: no head coverings, no sunglasses. Many were barefoot. Any skin that was exposed had long since turned pink and then red. Soon blisters would form that would eventually blacken.
And still, they were forced to walk.
It was impossible to escape, even to stop for rest; guards were now positioned on both sides of the lines, and by now, they displayed bows and arrows, metal clubs, and the electrical weapons that had been hidden under their robes. Whenever those in line encountered a break in the road, a rupture of cement and underlying dirt, they were forced to scramble over it, sometimes on their hands and knees. When anyone faltered or stumbled, he or she was yanked to their feet and sent back to the line with an electrical shock or a resounding blow to the shoulders.
After four hours, the people of Prin reached their destination.
It was a large house, larger than even the grand old homes in the wealthy section of Prin, set off the road and hidden by a dense covering of overgrown trees and vines that surrounded it. On closer inspection, it seemed to have been spared not only by earthquakes, but by Gleanings, looting, and vandalism. It still retained much of its old-fashioned beauty, faded yet intact. Two large cars sat in the circular driveway, one silver and the other a dark blue. In fact, while both were dusty, they were untouched; they might never have even been Harvested. But that was not what the people of Prin were thinking about.
The entire house was surrounded by dense coils of barbed wire.
Back in Prin, a team of two dozen was assembled on the central street.
They were criminals, vagrants, and castoffs recruited early that morning by Levi's few remaining guards, a ragtag mob of the desperate picked up from the fenced-in fields on the outskirts of town. They were all desperate to work, frantic for the meager allotment of food and water that had been promised them as payment.
According to the rough map drawn up by Levi, the work would start at the center of town and progress block by block.
Working in teams of two, the day workers entered the homes that had been evacuated. Once inside, they gathered everything they could—furniture, clothing, housewares—and carried it outside, dumping it into the street. Soon, the air was full of the sound of smashing wood and glass and plastic. If any stores of food or water were found, they were carried to a separate pile, where two of Levi's remaining boys stood watchful guard, metal clubs drawn as they made certain that nothing was held back or hidden in pockets.
Within hours, the street was littered with detritus.
The workers were ordered to begin the next phase. Under close watch, they wielded construction tools, valuable objects found over the years at Gleanings and stored in the Source for just such an occasion: crowbars, axes, shovels, even several chainsaws and a jackhammer. Much of the cement flooring and underlying foundations in the homes of Prin were already badly cracked and irreparably damaged. With effort, it was not difficult to work the cracks open even farther, revealing ancient gravel, moldering two-by-fours, and the dirt underneath.
Unless great care was taken, an unexpected cave-in could happen in the blink of an eye, sending heavy beams, sections of floor and ceiling, and even entire buildings crashing to the ground. But there was no time for care. There were too few people to demolish too many homes and, for Levi, speed was of the essence; his last three guards, armed with Tasers and batons, made sure of that.
Wood and plaster chips rained down on crude living rooms and kitchens as clay, shattered bricks, and rubble began to pile up in what had been people's homes. When the walls got in the way, the workers destroyed them, smashing them with sledgehammers and sending clouds of plaster dust spilling into the street. When two townspeople were discovered hiding in their homes, the workers barely paused from their labors. In both cases, they surrounded the unfortunate resident with upraised axes and shovels; and while the screams were piercing, they were brief.
By the end of the day, the workers had broken through the basement floor in nineteen buildings along the central block.
But so far, it was useless. Despite their efforts, they had found nothing beneath, beside, or within what had once been the homes of Prin.
On the other side of town, Joseph was in his apartment, thinking about cat food.
Of everyone in Prin, he alone had no idea what was going on. He would only find out much later that Levi's men had attempted to search his building for townspeople in order to evacuate them with the others. The precarious condition of his rotting stairwell, however, proved to be too daunting an obstacle and they gave up many floors beneath him.
Joseph was pondering his dwindling supplies. True, he was long accustomed to setting squirrel traps on his roof and down in the courtyard, but that was primarily for his own sustenance. His cats, however, were spoiled and preferred the food Esther brought them—dried rabbit, oat cakes, boiled rice. Yet he hadn't seen his friend since her unexpected visit during the last storm. Joseph missed her company. His cats, however, were not nearly as sentimental. He could only imagine their outrage when they saw what was on the menu today.
Armed with a mallet, Joseph walked down the many flights of stairs, accompanied by the best hunters of his brood, a tabby called Stumpy and a black cat, Malawi. Although the felines were not fond of eating squirrels, killing them was a different matter. In particular Stumpy could be counted on to deliver the final blow if he lost courage. They reached the ground floor, and Joseph was about to shepherd his feline companions across the lobby and toward the courtyard door, where the traps were.
Instead, he stopped in his tracks, as did Stumpy and Malawi. They all heard it: There was a repeated banging and hammering sound.
Someone was in the basement.
These were not the sounds of a Gleaning; these were focused and purposeful in a way that made the boy uneasy. Joseph crossed the lobby and slipped inside the door that led downstairs; his cats followed. This stairway was not nearly as precarious, although it was quite dark and he had to feel his way along the wall, reaching out with his feet for each step.
By the time he reached the bottom, the noises had stopped.
Joseph headed down the long dark halls, where old corroded pipes lined the walls around them. Halfway through, he paused.
"Hold on," he whispered.
Joseph was convinced that his cats knew several words of English or at least the meaning of certain human inflections. The animals halted, their tails flared with interest.
The boy could make out the muffled sound of voices. It seemed that more than one person was down in the basement, several yards ahead.
As Joseph crept onward, the cats behind him, he became aware of dim shadows flickering against the basement wall. Whoever was down there had a lit lamp, or given the weakness of the light, perhaps a candle.
Even without looking, he knew where the voices were coming from. His visitors were in the boiler room. His boiler room.
"This is it," said a boy. He sounded excited.
"What do you think he's gonna give us?" said a second.
Joseph tiptoed closer, then flattened himself against the wall near the doorway. The cats started to curl around his feet, bored of this game and wanting a new one.
He peered through the gap, careful to keep out of view. In the light of a candle stuck onto a brick jutting out of the wall, he saw two boys, their faces red from exertion and gleaming with sweat. Later, he would find out that these were two of Levi's criminal recruits. Both were holding tools of some kind and were gazing down at the ground, staring with greed and wonder at what was revealed by a newly widened hole in a floor long damaged by earthquakes and decay.
It was a gently natural spring, caused in turn many years ago by a fissure in the earth. It had been there as long as Joseph had been in the building. In fact, it was where he got drinking water for him and his cats, collected in a plastic bucket he brought down to the basement.
Thoughtful, he pulled back from the sight, lightly kicking away the cats. It hadn't crossed his mind that anyone might be searching for his water and that strangers would come in with shovels and picks to help find it. Then he realized with a start that no one had ever known about the spring. He wondered why this was so and discovered that the answer was simple.
No one had ever asked.
## SIXTEEN
CALEB WAS UNAWARE OF THE FIRST STRAY BEAMS OF SUNLIGHT THAT illuminated the ceiling of his cell. Unable to sleep, he had spent the night working by the light of a small fire, fixing his weapon. It still lay in pieces before him, but it was nearly finished.
It had been two days. And Esther hadn't returned.
He rebuked himself for the thousandth time for letting her go to the Source alone, even though he knew they had no other option. Caleb realized that he was far from whole. When he tried to move his left arm, a stabbing pain seized his chest, forcing the breath from his lungs and blood to seep through his bandage, now filthy and encrusted. Yet he had seen enough of Levi and his guards to understand what they were capable of. He had to go to Esther's aid, no matter what the cost.
Caleb fit the final piece of his weapon into place. As he tested the wheel to make sure that it spun, he recalled with frustration that he had no ammunition left. He would have to collect some on his way, a time-consuming task because it entailed finding stones that were the right shape and size.
Still, there was no other choice. He hoisted his pack onto his shoulders, wincing at the effort. The sooner he was on his way, the better.
He heard the creak of a distant wooden floorboard and Caleb froze.
The day before, Levi's guards had come and rounded up everyone hiding in the other cells. Even though Caleb had no idea why this was being done, he knew enough to hide. He had managed to pull himself up to the rafters just as a guard peered into his stall. After a cursory glance, the boy had moved on.
Now Caleb heard the sound again, faint but distinct. Someone was creeping down the hall, someone who did not want to be heard. With a pang, Caleb glanced at the smoldering remains of his fire. The smell of smoke traveled far. He had been aware of the risk last night but decided to take the chance anyway. As a result, he had apparently brought his enemy back to his door.
Caleb lay his pack down on the floor. Without ammunition, he would have to depend on his bare hands; but in his weakened state, he was not sure how much fight was in him. He would have to strike first, and strike hard.
He moved to the wall next to the door and flattened himself against it. Out in the corridor, he heard another wooden door being swung open, then after a pause, closed. Then two more at once. Then another. More footsteps. The sounds moved down the corridor, coming closer to where he stood, waiting.
Caleb did a quick calculation based on sound. There were at least two people outside in the corridor, perhaps even three.
One of them stood outside Caleb's cell. The door swung outward and someone stepped inside.
It was not one of Levi's guards. It was a townsperson of medium build, wearing a hooded robe. But Caleb could take no chances. Before the stranger could turn, Caleb made his move.
He clamped his right hand over the person's mouth. At the same time, Caleb wrenched the other's left arm up by the wrist, yanking it up his back as he dragged him (for it was a male) into a shadowy corner.
The boy struggled but Caleb's crushing grip warned him not to continue.
"Don't move," he whispered.
An eternity of several seconds passed in which the two figures stayed frozen in the dark, locked in a tableau of adrenaline and mutual fear. Then the door swung open again and a second boy, short and slight of frame, entered.
"Eli?" he said. "Where'd you go?"
There was no reply. He turned to leave but at the last second, noticed the two boys standing in the shadows. He froze in the doorway and at that moment, an older girl joined him. Turning to see what he was staring at, she gasped in disbelief.
Caleb was confused. The two were not only unarmed; they seemed surprised to see him there. If he wasn't their intended prey, then who was?
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"We're just looking for a place to hide," the boy said. "Away from Levi's guards."
Caleb's grip relaxed; and the person he was holding, the oldest of the three, broke free violently. He joined his friends, rubbing his shoulder as he glared at Caleb.
"What do you mean?" Caleb asked. "What's happened?"
The boy and girl, Bekkah and Till, explained all that had happened to Prin over the past twenty-four hours. How the entire town was rounded up. The forced march. The crowded barracks outside of town where everyone was compelled to stay, without food or water. And how the three had managed to escape, by climbing up to the roof and jumping past the barbed wire when the guards weren't watching.
Throughout, the oldest one, Eli, said nothing and stood glowering in the corner.
As he listened, Caleb realized that whatever Levi was planning, Esther was in greater danger than either of them had anticipated. If Levi had driven everyone out of Prin, this meant the situation had escalated. There was no way to tell what he was going to do next or how far he would go to make sure that nothing interfered with his plans.
"And so you came here, to hide?" asked Caleb.
The boy and girl traded a look, then shook their heads.
"We got to do something," Bekkah said. "What's going on ain't right."
"Only we don't know what to do," added Till in a smaller voice. He sounded plaintive.
Caleb realized that his position had improved. A few minutes ago, he had been an army of one. Now there were three more on his side.
And yet, when he looked them over, he could not help but feel dismayed. They weren't even among the townspeople he had trained; they were inexperienced, physically slight, and at least two of them were too excitable. Yet they were all he had to work with.
"I know something you could do," he said.
Bekkah and Till looked at him, willing to listen. The biggest one, Eli, still hadn't lost the angry and contemptuous expression he had worn since he wrestled his way free, and Caleb wondered what was causing it.
"I want to go to the Source," he said. "But I can't do it alone."
A quick glance passed among the three.
"But . . ." Bekkah hesitated to say the word, then plunged ahead. "You're a coward."
"Yeah," said Till, emboldened as well. "You run away from the last fight with the mutants. We all saw it."
Caleb knew he could not afford to get angry. "That's something you're going to have to judge for yourselves," he said.
Bekkah and Till both nodded. But it was Eli who spoke.
"Why," he said, "should we help you?"
His voice radiated a contempt that Caleb could not figure out. There was something beneath his response, something that cut deeper than the humiliation and shock of having been ambushed moments ago. Whatever it was felt personal, so Caleb looked at him and spoke without guile.
"This isn't about helping me," he said.
"No?" Eli was snide. "Then who?"
Caleb took a deep breath; he found he was shaking.
"Levi is holding two prisoners," he said. "One's my son. The other's Esther. My new partner." He swallowed hard; it was the first time he had said the word out loud. "I love them both," he continued. "Before I see either one of them hurt, I'll die. I swear I'll die in the Source if I have to. If you're not willing to do the same, then don't come with me."
To Eli, the word _partner_ came as a blow to the stomach.
He hadn't realized how much he had been hoping all this time that Esther's infatuation with the stranger was just that: a fleeting whim, a momentary obsession. If he was patient enough to wait, he had reasoned to himself, she would surely change her mind someday and choose him instead.
To learn that the two were partnered altered all of that. Even now, his unwilling eyes took in a detail he might have noticed earlier, had he been looking for it: Caleb wore a strip of red cloth around his wrist. It was a partnering tie; and Eli did not have to look twice to recognize it as being torn from Esther's sweatshirt.
Eli grudgingly found himself impressed by Caleb's bravery. It was more than that: He was moved by his sincerity. Did he, Eli, love Esther any more than Caleb did? Could anyone? If Eli refused to help him now, he knew it would only be from pettiness and jealousy. He was not certain he could live with that.
Eli looked Caleb in the eye.
"Just tell me what to do," he said. Behind him, the other two seemed ready to go wherever Caleb led them.
But Caleb was already thinking ahead.
"We need more people on our side," he said. "Those who can actually fight. And I think I know where to find them."
In the mansion across town, rumors were spreading like brushfire.
It began with the guards. Standing in the shade of a giant elm that dominated the front yard, they whispered among themselves of something that had been discovered in the basement of one of Prin's buildings, something precious. Inside, a boy eavesdropped through a shattered window and caught a handful of isolated phrases and words. He passed them on to another, then another. Word spread and as it did, the rumor transformed and distorted until it was accepted as fact.
_Release is imminent. We are going home._
But the longer the townspeople waited, the more doubt grew. Soon, panic and despair began to take hold. It was now well into the second day. There were nearly a hundred people crammed together in the heat, in a building meant for a quarter as many as that. By now, the conditions were unspeakably filthy. What was worse, they had not been given anything to eat or drink since they were brought here.
On the first day, two boys and a girl had managed to escape by making their way to the roof and jumping past a stretch of barbed wire that was unguarded. No one had followed. It seemed much too much of a risk to take, especially when an explanation, not to mention supplies, were surely coming at any moment.
But now, hysteria whipped the flames of a new rumor.
_We have been abandoned by Levi. There is no more food or water left at the Source. We have been brought here to die of thirst and starvation._
Shouting and pushing, townspeople fought their way into what had once been the opulent kitchen. They tore open the chestnut cabinets and the oversize refrigerator, smashed the glass windows of the ovens, ripped open drawers in the pantry, and dumped the silver cutlery onto the ground. There were rodents' nests and scurrying insects amidst the dusty china and crystal glasses, still intact after all these years, and cardboard boxes and metal food canisters with contents that had long since rotted to nothing.
In one cupboard, a girl found a forgotten can of tuna fish, bloated and stinking of decay. She and another girl fought over it, pulling each other's hair and slapping. The winner tore apart the corroded metal with her bare hands and ate the putrid mess inside. Not long after, she was curled in a corner, retching violently.
All day, the air had been thick and humid, and now, the sky darkened as wind began to whip the trees. When the rain came, the guards took shelter in a nearby building used to house cars. Inside the mansion, flashes of lightning revealed that rainwater was dripping from the many holes in the ceiling and leaching down the stained plaster walls.
Most of the townspeople shrank back in terror. Others were too desperate to care. They stood, mouths open, trying to catch the drops on their tongues. Some even attempted to lick any stray moisture off the walls, oblivious to the death sentence they were bringing on themselves.
One girl watched with a special sadness.
Sarah sat huddled against a wall. She was one of the few who had had the foresight to bring a robe; now, she covered herself with it, intent on disguising any evidence of her illness.
But no one noticed. They were too busy fighting and rampaging, taking out their fear and helplessness and panic not only on each other but on their palatial surroundings. Stained glass windows were smashed, a chandelier pulled to the ground, and marble fireplaces defaced; satin bedding was shredded and sofas and armchairs gutted, their stuffing littering the stained Oriental carpets.
It was the only beauty the people of Prin had ever seen. And they were destroying it.
It was too painful to watch, and soon Sarah's eyes, already blinking with fatigue, closed.
Four riders were on the main road heading out of town.
Caleb pedaled in front, next to Eli. Bekkah and Till followed close behind. They were on their way to find reinforcements, riding bicycles that they had stolen from outside Prin's destroyed homes.
They stopped at an intersection. "I think we go that way," Bekkah said, pointing.
After a hesitation, Eli shook his head. His voice was gruff and barely audible. "No. We go _that_ way."
From his bike, Caleb turned and nodded his thanks to Eli. The boy caught Caleb's eye, then glanced away.
After that, there was little time for talking. The road continued for a long time, past the parched lake, the forest, and beyond.
"This is it," said Eli at last.
The four, gasping and trembling with exertion, paused at the foot of a mountain. Overhead, the sun had passed its zenith. Faint tire tracks and footprints in the dust marked out the trail that disappeared among the trees in front of them.
Bekkah and Till traded one last look and the smaller child turned to Caleb.
"Are you sure?"
Caleb didn't answer and Bekkah took the opportunity to speak. "We could stay down here," she offered. "If you think that would help."
It was Eli who replied, scowling. "This is why we came," he said. "We all stick together."
And so they began the arduous climb, getting off their bicycles to push them alongside when the ascent became too steep. It was easy to lose the trail; if there were marks, they were so subtly done that they were invisible to the untrained eye. Caleb and the others were so intent on finding their way, it was only when they approached a clearing at the plateau that they realized they had reached their goal: the place that everyone in Prin had always heard about but few had seen.
The variants' camp.
Warily, they looked at the strange lean-tos and huts, the still smoldering communal fires, the racks of drying meat. Off to the side were empty crates from the Source, starting to deteriorate from the sun and rain: discarded testaments to a time of trade and prosperity, now over.
Caleb barely noticed.
Six or seven variants had turned to face them and more were spilling out of their homes or from the woods. Soon, the variants far outnumbered the four norms who stood before them, now shrinking back with unease. The variants murmured loudly to one another, all wearing expressions of open disbelief, suspicion, and hatred.
Their anger seemed directed at Caleb, who gazed back at them evenly. Beneath his cool appearance, however, his heart was beating wildly and his stomach felt like lead.
All noise ceased; someone was cutting through the crowd. As the others fell back, the largest male among them stepped forward, his eyes blazing with anger and disbelief.
Caleb recognized him at once: it was the warrior he had fought on his first day in Prin, so long ago. After his humiliating rout by Levi, the variant leader seemed more than ready for a confrontation, especially with his entire people present as witness.
"What is this?" Slayd asked.
Bekkah and Till recoiled, falling back a step. Eli, too, could not help quailing in front of such fury. Caleb, however, stood his ground, although he could not control the twitch that flickered across his cheek.
"We need your help," Caleb said.
At this, the crowd's agitation grew. "How dare you come here and ask us a favor?" Slayd said. "You above all, who fought us and took a special pleasure in it?"
"Kill him!" someone shouted, and the murmuring grew louder, more restless.
Slayd held up a hand for silence.
"We need your help to fight Levi," Caleb said.
The variant leader did not pretend to hide his surprise and gestured for explanation. With his voice shaking a little, Caleb proceeded to give him one.
Caleb told all assembled about the wrongs done to him by Levi: about the kidnapping of his son, the murder of his first partner, and the foiled attempt on his own life. He revealed that Levi was holding those he loved against their will.
"Many of you are raising young ones," Caleb said. "You can imagine how I feel having my son taken away. And many of you are partnered. So you too might understand how I feel to have lost my partner, Esther, as well."
In the silence that followed, Slayd stared at Caleb. Then his lavender eyes narrowed. Despite himself, he was moved by the norm's words and thought for the first time about the human cost of the crime he had so blithely hired others to do. Still, he showed nothing in his face.
With a sinking heart, Caleb read the silence as indifference.
"Don't you have a score to settle with Levi?" he asked, this time speaking to Slayd. "Didn't Levi break your deal and betray you after you trusted him? Why not join with us and pay him back?"
Caleb's barb found its target; Slayd winced, as if struck. It was clear that the memory was not only fresh, but still painful. Yet the variant pulled himself up and said in a haughty voice, "That is not your concern."
Too late, Caleb realized his tactical error. Reminding Slayd of Levi's betrayal had embarrassed the proud leader before his people by making him appear weak and foolish. Without intending to, he had caused Slayd to lose face. And he knew this was something the variants did not forgive.
Again, the crowd grew restive; the delicate trust had been broken. As Caleb glanced around, he now saw that most of the variants were beginning to slip rocks out from their pouches and pockets, loading up slings or wielding them in their hands.
Slayd stepped aside. When he raised his hand, all of the variants fell silent. They were cocking their weapons.
Desperate, Caleb gave a final look at the three behind him. They too were aware of the deadly shift in tone that had just occurred. Sensing impending disaster, unsure whether to fight or flee, they backed up on their bikes.
Then a voice broke through the silence.
_"Stop!"_
A lone female fought her way out from the crowd. A boy, most likely her partner, tried to hold her back. She said something inaudible to him. When he did not relent, she broke free of his grip. With no fear whatsoever, she approached the variant leader and addressed him.
"Esther is my friend," she said. "She is also a friend to us all. If this boy is truly her partner and says she is in trouble, we must help."
Slayd looked down at the girl, his arm still raised and his face a mask of fury.
"You are certain, Skar?" he asked. And she nodded once, emphatically.
At that, the impossible happened. Slayd's features softened. His hand, about to signal mayhem, fell back to his side.
He turned away from the girl, back to Caleb.
"You're lucky that I believe her," he said in a gruff voice.
Skar smiled to herself. She clearly did not want to gloat, yet could not resist doing a little dance that Esther alone would recognize.
Slayd pointed at her with obvious pride mixed with respect and not a little exasperation.
"My little sister," he said, "has never led me wrong."
## SEVENTEEN
IN THE HALLWAY, ESTHER COULD HEAR ONE OF THE GUARDS TALK ABOUT dinner.
How hungry he was. How long it had been since he had eaten a good meal. How desperate he was for a bite of something juicy.
"Yeah," said the other guard; "but we got orders. Besides, I like pigeons with a little more meat on them."
As the key turned in the lock and the door swung open, both laughed. Esther, lying on the cold, cement floor, squinted upward at the sudden light. They were talking about her, she realized. Her cheeks burned with shame and fury, but she said nothing.
One of the guards set a bowl of food on the floor and shoved it toward her. The first few times, they had stayed long enough to watch her eat, guffawing at her pathetic efforts. With her wrists and ankles bound behind her, Esther was forced to inch toward the bowl on her side, then attempt to eat out of it like a dog. But after two days, the routine was not as entertaining as it once was. She had barely made a move before they exited, slamming the door shut and throwing her back into total darkness.
Esther stayed still on the cement floor as she waited for the sound of their footsteps to fade away. Once she was certain they were gone, she worked her way to a kneeling position and shuffled on her knees across the floor.
When Esther was first imprisoned in one of the small rooms in the basement of the Source, she discovered a wooden bench near the wall, bolted to the floor. Exploring it with her bound hands, she located what she was looking for: a tiny rough edge on one of its metal legs. Since then, she had been spending hours every day rubbing her nylon wrist binds against it.
Today, she was able to cut through the final fibers. Then she untied her ankles.
Wincing at the pain, Esther attempted to rub blood back into her limbs as she got to her feet to take stock of her surroundings. The only illumination was the tiny strip of light below the door. She clapped her hands once, sharply, trying to get a sense of how big the room was by the faint echo that bounced back. This was something Skar tried to teach her to do for fun, on several occasions; but as before, she found her ear was too insensitive and untrained to detect anything at all.
So she walked ahead, sightless, reaching out. Starting with the door, Esther began to grope her way around the room. There was a smooth expanse of what felt like painted brick, with a small switch set in a metal plate. Esther clicked it and waited; nothing happened.
She reached the second and then the third wall; it was a medium-size room, rectangular in shape. Near the bench, her fingers encountered something metal, a shallow and boxlike structure that was taller than she was and built flush against the wall. It sounded hollow when tapped and by touch, she assumed it to be a series of narrow closets of some kind, side by side, with ventilation slats. There were a dozen or so per wall, each set with a small metal handle. Esther went down both rows, trying to jiggle each one open, but to no avail.
The fourth wall was smooth and bare; when she rounded its corner, she found herself back at the locked door.
Esther was trapped. Yet she recalled a variant phrase, the basis of everything Skar had taught or tried to teach her.
_Look with new eyes._
In other words, there were always options to any situation, different paths, other choices. The secret was to discover what they were. As far as Esther knew, there was only one way in and out of the room. Yet she realized she only assumed this because that was what her fingers told her, here on the ground.
What about higher up?
Esther faced the bare fourth wall. She brushed her fingertips against its painted surface, exploring its bumps and cracks. And then she began to climb.
Within seconds, her sneakered feet were scraping against the smooth wall, unable to find a purchase, and her fingers scrabbled in vain for the next handhold. Esther gave up and dropped back to the ground with a light thump.
Even Skar could not scale a wall in the dark; it was virtually impossible to climb anything without being able to see where next to grab. Esther decided: If she could not see, then she would have to learn the wall by trial and error and memorize her route.
Gritting her teeth, she tried again. And again.
She got higher her fifth time, and even higher her sixth. As she hoped, she was also getting a better feel for the wall, remembering where the best cracks and irregularities lay.
On her eleventh try, she was able to reach the ceiling, which she judged to be a little more than twice her height. As she released one hand to explore the area around her, she grazed the edge of something built into the wall before she lost her grip and dropped to the ground.
But Esther, who had explored countless old buildings with Skar and knew their odd construction well, had found what she was looking for.
Within moments, she took one step to her right and began again the laborious process of teaching herself to climb a new surface. After more than a dozen tries, she reached her goal.
It was a rectangular metal grid embedded high in the wall, just below the ceiling. The square openings were thick with dust and just big enough for the tips of her fingers to fit through. This allowed Esther to not only hang on, but to walk her feet up the wall so they were on either side of the metal plate.
She cautiously pulled backward, then with more force. As she did, the grating started to shift in her hands and the ancient mortar crumbled away, freeing rusty screws that pinged to the ground below. She steeled herself, then with one violent motion, yanked back as hard as she could while pushing off with her legs. The grid wrenched out of the wall and Esther went flying backward.
She managed to land standing up while still holding onto the grid, staggering back under its weight. Then she dropped it and clambered back up the wall, to the rectangular hole that now gaped open in the dark.
Esther found herself in a narrow chute made of flimsy metal. Wriggling forward on her belly, she found that even moving slowly made it contort. The joins were especially fragile; as she pulled herself over them, she noted that several of them were on the verge of giving way. Esther could only pray that the structure held up under her weight; she did not care to imagine what would happen if it didn't.
Since she could not see where she was going, Esther touched the walls around and in front of her to check if they branched out. The first time she found a new passageway, she noticed a dim light glowing at the end of it. When she pulled herself closer, she found herself peering through a filthy grating, looking out onto a small room lit by an overhead glass coil. Below her, one of Levi's guards was seated with his back to her. He was at a table crowded with strange glowing boxes, flickering screens with moving images.
Esther was moving as carefully as she could; but her meager weight caused the metal beneath her to buckle, making a loud noise. The guard swiveled around in his chair, his hand on the club at his waist; and she froze.
There was silence.
"Damn rats," he said. Then he returned to the bank of monitors.
Esther eased her way back to the central passageway. She thought of her promise to Caleb and was filled with despair. Precious time was slipping away and yet she could not go any faster, trapped as she was in the dark. All she could do was keep going. She was not even sure what she was looking for: an empty basement room, she supposed, with an unguarded door so she could again make her way to the main floor, where Kai was kept.
Another passageway branched off to the left and when Esther turned onto it, she saw that it too ended in a dimly lit grating. She assumed it would also be a room with a guard and was about to continue on, when something made her hesitate.
_Look with new eyes. To assume anything is foolish._
She turned to the left, making certain to distribute her weight over the flimsy metal. When she was close enough, she glanced through the grating.
What she saw made her heart skip a beat.
Below her was the baby.
He was sleeping on a purple blanket surrounded by a small wooden pen. There was a jumble of toys scattered around him, obviously new; their bright colors and childish designs clashed with the industrial setting, the gray cement floor and painted brick walls.
Kai had been moved here recently. If there was a guard, he was most likely posted outside the room.
Esther grabbed the metal grating with both hands and attempted to shove it. It didn't budge. She tried again, to no avail. She would need to work it loose, although it was a risky process; with each movement, she could feel the thin passageway sway and bend beneath her.
Esther began to rock the grid back and forth, again and again. At first, it was as if she was trying to tease a full-grown tree out of the earth with her bare hands. But soon she felt it starting to give way. Bits of ancient brick began to crumble from the constant friction of metal screws; she could hear them raining down on the ground below.
Esther was able to push out, as hard as she could. The grid gave way, just as part of the passageway collapsed beneath her legs.
When she landed on her feet, still clutching the grating, she saw that the child was now awake. He stood clinging to the side of his pen, two of his fingers in his mouth, staring at her.
Esther reached over the side of his pen and lifted him. She had only seen a few babies in her life and had never held one before; Kai was soft and warm and surprisingly heavy, so much so that she nearly dropped him. She tried to carry him face up, across her arms, but he didn't seem to like that; he began to fuss and struggled to sit upright. Finally, she found a position that suited them both, with him perched on her hip, his face close to hers.
"Garrrh," he said, reaching out to grab her chin.
Esther knew she must get him out of the Source, and yet she could not help herself. She closed her eyes for a moment to better feel the touch of his tiny, soft hands as they explored her filthy face. She found she was enchanted by this mysterious little being, this baby.
The boy looked like Caleb: He had the same dark hair and the same hazel eyes. And yet, there were subtle differences: his rounded chin. His forehead. _He probably took after his mother as well,_ Esther thought with a pang. Yet instead of being jealous of her, she was surprised by the pity she felt for the dead girl, as well as a strange sense of connection.
In the meanwhile, Kai had seized the string to her hood and was attempting to suck on it.
"Don't do that," admonished Esther; "it's dirty."
Then it occurred to her that he might be hungry. It would be too risky trying to escape with a fretful child, she reasoned; his cries would alert the guards. Looking around, she noticed an untouched bowl of rice in his pen. As she stooped to pick it up, he was already reaching for it, grabbing at the cereal with both fists and pasting it onto his face.
"Slow down," Esther whispered. Then she made a decision.
Feeding him would only take a minute or two. Once they were on their way, she would give him more food from the meager supplies she had remembered to pack in her bag.
She had thought of all things, except one.
The security camera in the corner of the room.
There was a loud bang, and Michal screamed.
But it was only the sound of a bottle being opened, a bottle of rare and special wine that fizzed and bubbled when exposed to the air. Levi had read once that champagne was traditionally used by kings and generals for centuries to celebrate important victories; and he had long saved several bottles unearthed during a Gleaning for a moment such as this. For he had never felt more like a king than he did today.
Levi had won everything he wanted.
He had conquered his despised brother while visiting revenge on the ghosts of their parents. He had found an heir, a healthy boy tied to him by blood, whom he would raise to succeed him as ruler of all he had created. The townspeople were out of the way, for good. Levi was only seventeen; he had at least two good years left. Maybe he could live even longer now that he had found clean, drinkable water in Prin, where none had existed for decades. Who knew what he would be able to accomplish in that time?
And it was all due to his singular vision, his perseverance, his strength; you might say it was because of his _genius_. Such an occasion called for a momentous celebration, one he had thought hard about and planned accordingly.
There was only one detail left to attend to.
As Michal carried the champagne away from his office to pour it into special glasses, Levi watched her go. Earlier, he had ordered her to apply her makeup with extra care and selected which clothing she should wear: tight, colorful clothing that accentuated her figure. _She had never looked better,_ he thought to himself.
It was almost a pity.
When she returned with the drinks on a silver tray (Danish sterling, from a Gleaning), she looked flushed and expectant. She offered him a heavy glass goblet that sparkled with rainbow facets (Austrian lead crystal), then set the tray down on his desk.
"To the future," he said, raising his goblet.
"To the future," she replied, her eyes lowered.
They clinked glasses, and he knocked back his drink in one swallow. He had never tasted champagne before; the bubbles gave the wine a remarkable airiness, a tingling sweetness, that made him shiver.
"I could get a taste for this," he remarked.
Michal giggled. She was about to raise her own glass when Levi stared at her.
"And don't think I've forgotten about you," he said. "I have a little present I'd like to give you."
He reached into a drawer. Without taking his eyes off her, he pulled out something that he tossed onto the desk between them.
It was a filthy piece of cloth. Michal leaned forward, smiling if puzzled, to examine it. Levi was amused to watch her jerk back in terror when she realized what it was.
It was Caleb's shirt—stiff and blackened with his blood, and torn in two places where the arrow had broken his skin.
"I can explain," she stammered. All of the color had drained from her face. But Levi ignored her.
"I searched your room," he said. "You weren't there, of course." He was watching her, studying with almost clinical interest the open expressions of terror, denial, and helpless defiance that played across her pretty features. "This was stuffed under a corner of your mattress."
"I . . . I don't know how it got there," she mumbled.
Levi smiled. "I suppose you were waiting for an opportune moment to dispose of it," he suggested. "Unless you were keeping it as a souvenir of your good deed?"
Two dots of red appeared in Michal's pale cheeks; and she flashed a look at him that was strangely confrontational.
"What are you going to do?" she asked in a low voice.
Levi rocked back in his chair. "I've given that quite a bit of thought," he said, as he drew on first one, then a second leather glove. He sounded as if he was talking about the weather or what to order for dinner. "I could, of course, have you banished, or killed. But those are too general, too common. No, I wanted a punishment that would really suit _you_."
He bent down to pick something up from the ground beside him. It was a square metal canister with an open spout. Before Michal had a moment to react, he hurled its contents into her face.
She let out a high-pitched shriek and jumped to her feet as clear liquid dripped down her front and splattered her clothing. Wherever it landed, the bright colors instantly dissolved and started to run in long streaks.
Levi made a gesture and two guards materialized on either side of Michal. She was clawing at her face, screaming in a voice that seemed more animal than human.
"Industrial-strength lye," Levi remarked. "The label says it dissolves fatty acids, which makes it wonderfully effective for cleaning a place as big as the Source. But it's a little hard on human skin."
He followed as Michal was dragged, shrieking, through the halls of the Source. He watched as one of the guards activated the machinery that raised the giant metal door. The girl was shoved outside into the glaring heat of the day. She fell to the dusty ground and crouched there, still clutching her face, rocking back and forth in agony.
With a nod, Levi dismissed his guards. Even he had the desire to keep some things private.
"Don't worry," he said. "It may burn for a while, but you'll almost certainly survive. As for your pretty face . . . well, I'm afraid that's another matter. I'm not sure who's going to want to look at you very closely again."
He turned to go but was unexpectedly stopped.
"At least I'll be in better shape than you," Michal said.
Her voice sounded hoarse and ravaged, either from the lye or her screams; it was hard to tell. Levi looked back down at her.
"How's that?"
"Your drink," she said. "I put rainwater in it."
Levi froze. Then he attempted to laugh it off.
"Did you hear me?" she said, raising her voice. "I been saving it up. I put it in when I poured the drinks. That's why I didn't have any. I put rainwater in your wine, Levi. You're a dead man."
Levi was walking away from her, walking fast, before breaking into a run. Behind him, her voice rose to an unholy shriek.
" _You're dead!_ "
But he was already inside the Source, stumbling to get to the controls to lower the door, to shut out her voice. He could not accept what she had said. After all he had accomplished and what he looked forward to doing in the next few years, it could not be true.
It must not.
And in fact, it wasn't.
Driven by shock and pain and on the spur of the moment, Michal had blurted out the one thing that she knew would hurt him the most. More than anyone, she was aware of Levi's terror of both water and the sun. Now she could only hope that her lie would spread unchecked throughout his body and mind, weakening both almost as effectively as the poison he so feared.
It was not much, but it was her last and only way to retaliate.
Michal got to her feet and stood, swaying, her hands still pressed to her face. Every movement was sheer torture. She realized she had nothing left in the world: no home or shelter, not one possession or a single friend. She had no idea where to go, but one thing was certain.
It would be far from the town of Prin.
Inside, as the door of the Source rumbled to the ground, a guard ran up to Levi. "There's been another security violation," he said. "The camera caught the thief with the baby."
Levi felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
"Are they still on the premises?" he asked. For the second time in his life, he found himself trembling violently.
The guard nodded. "They're still down there," he said.
Levi nodded. Without a word, he took off at a run.
He had received a death sentence. That he understood abstractly, as if it were happening to someone else. Yet even while the full truth had yet to sink in, he felt more alive than ever, his nerve endings and his mind surging as they responded to this latest threat.
All he knew was that there was only one thing left in the world with any value, and it was about to be taken away from him.
Levi could not trust the others to do his work for him. He could not depend on anyone who was not his equal; they were full of envy and would only look for ways to cheat and betray him. He was foolish to have taken in Michal, he understood that now, to have shown her any sort of kindness or generosity; for she repaid him like the animal she was. And now, he had to take matters into his own hands if he was to protect his new son and heir and only legacy.
He must save the child.
When Esther heard the door burst open behind her, she whirled around with Kai still in her arms. Levi stood in the open doorway, staring at the two of them.
For a fleeting moment, she could see the resemblance to his younger brother. But unlike Caleb, Levi had hair that was swept back from his paper-white forehead, and his eyes glittered like black stars. Right now, he was cooing, saying strange things as he approached.
"Don't be frightened," he said. "Everything is going to be all right."
Esther realized with a sickening lurch that he was talking to Kai and she tightened her hold on him. She tried to dart past Levi to the open door, but he slashed out at her. She had not noticed the knife he carried and the blade barely missed her arm.
"Esther," he said, recognizing her.
He sounded pleased, as if he had just run into a familiar face at a boring gathering, and his smile seemed genuine. "It's been such a long time. You were just a little girl when I knew your sister, Sarah. You've grown up very nicely. But you'll have to hand him over to me. You know that, don't you?"
Esther shook her head and backed up. She needed to stay free of his reach without allowing herself to get cornered. But Kai was restless and growing heavy in her arms. As Levi drew closer to them, she stumbled on a toy, nearly falling.
"I had some good news today," continued Levi, in a strange, absent tone. "Exceptional news, in fact. I discovered water. Fresh, drinkable water, bubbling up from the ground. But I need my son." He sounded so plaintive, so reasonable. "I need him to help me celebrate. What good is it when you have good news and no one to celebrate with?"
With a start, Esther realized that she must do more than merely react to Levi, backing away from his advances. At the moment, he was behaving in an odd and distracted fashion, but it would be foolish to underestimate him. The open door lay at an equal distance between the two of them. If she could engage with him, she could perhaps distract him enough so she could escape with Kai.
"Don't you have friends?" she managed to say.
Levi chuckled. "You mean my employees?"
Despite his mocking voice, he seemed to be considering her question. Esther realized with a shock that her hunch was right: in some crazy way, Levi wanted to have someone to talk to. She took advantage of the moment to take an unobtrusive step toward the exit.
"You've seen them," Levi said. "They're hardly the stuff of companionship, wouldn't you say?"
"But you must have other friends," she continued.
His expression darkened and he lowered his eyes. This allowed her to sidle closer toward the door.
"Friendship," Levi mused. "That's just business mixed with sentiment. Two people at the same level . . . if they're of service to each other, they call each other 'friend.' But if they aren't equals, the whole idea is impossible. It can't exist."
Esther decided to take a chance. "You were friends with my sister," she said.
Levi seemed to be listening, nodding his head. "It's true. Sarah provided a valuable service when she taught me how to read. But even back then, I was aware of her limits. I didn't think she was going to amount to anything. And I was right. Your sister was going to stay where she was. I wasn't."
Esther bristled, but forced herself to bite her tongue. She was almost at the door.
"But there must be _someone_ ," she said.
"Like my . . . companion?"
His eyes flashed with understanding. With one move, he was on her like a cat, twisting her free arm behind her back and holding the knife against her jaw. She held still, feeling its point digging into her flesh.
"What do you know about Caleb?" he breathed into her ear. "You aren't by any chance a friend of his, are you?"
Esther would only have had a chance of escaping if she dropped Kai; and she was not about to do that. Instead, she stood silent, as Levi wrenched her arm harder and pressed the knife even deeper into her skin.
But then he stopped. He had noticed the red strip tied around her wrist.
"I see," he said. Then he smiled.
So his younger brother had not been destroyed. If Caleb sent this girl as his emissary, he was still in Prin and bent on revenge. For a moment, Levi almost felt pride in his sibling's persistence.
But he had the advantage.
The life of Caleb's partner had to be worth a great deal. He was quite certain it could be used to barter for something valuable.
And if that turned out not to be the case, at least ending it would bring him the very real pleasure of creating more agony for his enemy.
Downstairs in his windowless basement office, a guard scanned the flickering monitors arranged in front of him with renewed vigor.
The guard was relieved he happened to be paying attention earlier, when the girl broke into the baby's room. He shuddered to imagine what Levi would have done to him if he had been napping or looking elsewhere or daydreaming like he usually did and the baby was kidnapped during his supposed watch. He and the others still carried the painful marks of Levi's earlier displeasure.
Now Levi had asked him to be especially alert for the return of the stranger, the boy they had left for dead. Doing so was the only way to avoid more pain.
Then he did a double take.
Someone was looking up at one of the cameras and waving. It was the guard stationed outside the front door. He and another one of Levi's men were propping someone up between them, a boy who seemed barely alive. One of them lifted him up by his hair so the camera could better see who it was.
It was Caleb.
Excited, the guard jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. He was halfway down the hall, heading for the stairs, and pulling out his walkie-talkie so he could communicate with the others.
"Meet at the front gate. We got him."
Outside the Source, the two guards in their black hooded uniforms waited outside the giant metal door. Their mirrored sunglasses reflected not only the broiling sun, but the prisoner they held up between them.
"Do you think they're coming?" one of them whispered. It was Eli, disguised.
"If they were watching," replied Caleb. He kept his head down, and half-stood, half-leaned against Eli and the other guard, Bekkah.
Pressed against the building on either side of the metal gate, well out of the sight of the cameras, crouched Slayd, Skar, and more than thirty variants, all with their weapons drawn. Farther off in the underbrush, Till had just finished gagging the two actual guards, who had been stripped of their hoods and robes and bound. Then he joined the others as they all watched in silence.
They did not have long to wait. After no more than a minute, there was a grinding sound.
The giant metal door was opening.
Esther thought she must have been imagining things. But then she heard it again, faint but unmistakable.
It was the sound of Skar's whistle.
Levi heard it, too. He cocked his head and pushed the knife in deeper.
"What's that?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he jabbed her with its point.
"It means you're surrounded," she replied.
Levi chuckled, then yanked Esther by her arm. "We'll see about that," he said. "Take the boy."
He wrapped his arm around her throat, the knife held to her side, and pushed her out into the hallway. He seemed rattled when he saw that there were no guards on duty. Then he shook it off. With Esther held tightly in front of him, he advanced down the hallway and up the dim staircase.
The main floor of the Source was as dark as ever, and eerily silent. The only sound was the click of Levi's boots on the concrete floor as he advanced into the open.
"Caleb?" he shouted.
His voice echoed in the cavernous space. There was silence. And then someone stepped out from the deep shadows. It was his brother, followed at a distance by three others with their hoods down, two boys and a girl.
Caleb looked drawn and exhausted; and his companions were so thin and scrawny, they looked as if they would not outweigh one of his boys even if put together. Furthermore, the four were clearly unarmed, their hands empty.
Levi burst out laughing.
"Are these the warriors who have me surrounded?" he asked Esther. "Am I supposed to be frightened?"
Then something caught his eye. By the side of the open door, he saw that all of his men were tied up, wrists to ankles. There was a sound from above; and Levi, puzzled, glanced up.
Perched on the highest shelves, standing on crates and cartons, were dozens of variants. Some held loaded slings; others carried spears; at least one had a bow and arrow. All were aimed at Levi, whose smile died.
Skar, for one, had her arm cocked back, a throwing stick loaded with a spear balanced on her shoulder. Across the room, she glanced at Esther, and the two locked eyes. Then the variant girl flashed her a quick smile and a wink, before resuming her stern expression and warrior stance.
"Caleb!" shouted one. It was Slayd, who stood with his sister. "Should we kill him? Give the word and it is done."
But Caleb held up his hand, stopping them.
"No," he said. "Leave him to me."
On Slayd's instructions, the variants dropped to the ground and fanned out across the Source, searching for any remaining guards.
As one kept a watchful eye on Levi, Caleb ran to Esther and his child and embraced them. Esther shifted the baby into his arms, and he buried his face in Kai's soft neck. Then he glanced up. Amid all the activity, one person was standing still.
Eli was staring at Esther with a look filled with longing, sorrow, and loss. It was impossible to miss. As for Esther, it was equally apparent that she was avoiding his gaze. Caleb now understood what had fueled the boy's lingering hostility. But instead of becoming angry, he had a sense of understanding, as well as sympathy.
Caleb handed the baby back to Esther. Then he approached Eli.
"You know where the others are being held?" he asked him in a low voice. "The place where you escaped from?"
It took a moment for Eli to turn his attention to Caleb.
"What about it?" he asked.
"Will you take the others there?" Caleb asked. "I need you to be in charge."
When the words sank in, Eli's face flushed with pride. Caleb reached out and the two boys shook hands.
Then Caleb went into his pack and withdrew something.
"Here," he said. "You might need this."
It was his weapon. He demonstrated how to load and fire it and Eli took it, gratefully.
"Thanks," he said. Then Eli waved at the variants and the others. "All right," he called. "Let's go."
Slayd glanced at Caleb, to confirm the hierarchy. He was, after all, not accustomed to following the orders of strangers. Caleb's nod was enough for him. With a slight shrug, Slayd lifted his hand and directed his people to follow Eli.
Esther, still holding Kai, ran to Skar, and for several seconds, the two girls hugged without a word. Then Esther pulled back to look her friend in the face.
"Thank you," was all she could say. But Skar smiled, shaking her head.
"When you came to us, we should have given you refuge," she said. "This was the least we could do to make up for it."
And with that, Skar turned her attention to the baby. She took Kai into her arms, cooing and nuzzling. "Here," she said. She pulled a length of cloth from her pack and showed Esther how to make a sling, bundling the child close to her body. Then she hugged her friend once more and wished her luck. As Skar returned to her brother and the other variants, Esther approached Caleb.
"I'll take Kai somewhere safe," she said. "I have a friend who lives high in a building on the edge of town. It's secure there."
Caleb nodded. Then he kissed Esther and his son. Soon she was gone, slipping out even before the others had left. He watched the rest exit the Source, taking the light with them.
Then Caleb turned. There was still the question of Levi.
## EIGHTEEN
ELI BICYCLED ALONGSIDE SLAYD ON THE ROUTE LEADING BACK TO THE mansion where the townspeople were being held. Behind them, Skar, Bekkah, Till, and the rest of the variants spread out in a loose V formation.
As they rode, the variant leader questioned the norm about the place they were going to try to liberate. _What were the best approaches to the building? Were they open or hidden? How many guards were there, and where were they posted? Were there townspeople strong enough to assist? Were there any breaks in the barbed wire?_
Eli answered as best as he could. He was both relieved and proud that he could provide enough details to satisfy Slayd. As for the variant, he was impressed that the boy was able to mount a successful escape with his two companions. Despite their initial and mutual distrust, the two leaders now discussed a possible attack plan, one that capitalized on the fighting prowess of the variants as well as the norms' knowledge of the layout and the people involved.
At the mansion, Levi's guards had no idea what was bearing down on them. They stood at attention at newly assigned posts, just beyond the strands of razor wire that coiled around the house exterior. On the first day, the boys were left to their own devices. As a result, they spent the day clustered in a group, making bets on flipped coins, wrestling, and gossiping. But after three of the prisoners escaped, word came from Levi that all guards were to be stationed around the perimeter.
Despite their grumbling, the boys were too intimidated not to comply. As a result, they were openly indifferent to the sounds of rioting from within: screaming, the smashing of glass, and the splintering of wood. Whether the townspeople lived or died was of no consequence to them. The guards only thought about their own welfare.
But staying at attention was too hard for most. One guard rested at his station by the front of the house. A hulking boy with shaggy hair that stuck out around the edges of his hood, he used a stick to scratch a game of solitary tic-tac-toe in the dust by his feet. He no longer even heard the ragged voices on the other side of the barbed wire, pleading for water or news. But after a while, he did hear something else, and he glanced up.
There was a scrabbling coming from the roof above his head.
Pebbles rolled across shingles and rained down on him, as if dislodged by someone above. He smiled as he got into position to catch the escaping prisoner who was so obviously climbing down. It was almost too easy. He was one of the few who had been assigned a Taser, which he now took from his belt and tapped against his palm with anticipation.
But the threat did not come from above; with the guard facing the house, his back to the yard, it instead came from behind. An object winged through the air, followed by a loud crack. The boy's knees buckled as he sank to the ground, blood from his temple staining the damp grass.
The prisoners watching from inside fell silent as Bekkah and a variant boy emerged from their hiding places. As the variant bent down to grab the weapon from the guard's still-twitching fingers, Bekkah was pulling something out from her jeans pocket. It was a cutting device taken from the Source for just this purpose, with sharp edges and rubber handles.
She got to work on the razor wire. There were at least four coiling strands blocking the front door and the metal they were made of was sturdy. By squeezing as hard as she could, Bekkah was able to snip through one piece. The wire, however, sprang back abruptly and one of the razor edges slashed her across the bare arm. Wincing, she kept working.
Eli was watching from a car abandoned in the overgrown driveway, a silver Lexus. "It's taking too long," muttered Eli to Slayd, who knelt next to him.
"That is why we must attack now," Slayd replied under his breath. "Before it is too late." Out of courtesy, he made a point of glancing at the norm for confirmation. Eli hesitated before nodding, and Slayd put his fingers in his mouth, giving a piercing whistle.
Eli took out Caleb's weapon.
And seconds later, the attack began.
A barrage of rocks was unleashed from all angles: from behind trees, abandoned cars, the roof of a gardening shed. Taken by surprise, Levi's men had no time to defend themselves. Two of them managed to duck the flying projectiles, batting them aside. One even succeeded in breaking loose. He took off down the circular driveway at a sprint. But he was no match for two variants, one on his bicycle and the other perched on his rear wheel pegs and taking aim as he whirled his loaded sling overhead. Within seconds, there was a final loud crack. All of the guards had been felled, and the grass was littered with their bodies. Slayd and the others started searching them and removing their weapons.
At first, the townspeople shrank back from the windows, in fear of the flying missiles. Now they crushed together at the front door, where Bekkah was still struggling to cut the last few strands of razor wire.
Blinking in the light of the sun, the exhausted residents emerged, some barely able to stand. One by one, they glanced down at the unconscious guards, anonymous in their bloody hoods and cracked sunglasses. Just moments before, they had seemed omnipotent. Now, a small boy kicked one as he passed, and another spat on the unmoving forms.
"Animals," he hissed.
Eli pushed his way past the released residents, back to the place where he too had so recently been imprisoned. Once inside, he did a quick search of the home, going from room to room to make sure no one was left behind. As he did, he winced not only at the filth and stench, but the senseless damage. Everything he saw spoke of impotent fury: the floors were littered with glass, the furniture was smashed, and the walls kicked in.
He saw that the mansion was almost empty; only the final stragglers were left. But in one corner of the house, a motionless form swathed in a white robe despite the unbearable heat huddled against the wall.
Eli bent and, with surprising ease, picked her up; she seemed weightless. Then, walking through the now vacated prison, he carried Sarah to safety.
It was hard work running with a small child tied to one's back.
It was not so much Kai's weight; he was just a baby, and Esther had carried far heavier burdens before. But no matter how carefully she ran, the jostling made him wail and struggle in his harness. He even managed to kick a leg free and Esther, terrified that he might fall out, was forced to slow to a walk. So it took her twice as long as she expected to reach the Gideon Putnam Hotel.
When she did, she was alarmed by what she saw.
The apartment complex, Joseph's beloved but decaying home, was guarded by Levi's men. Two of them, armed with bows and arrows, flanked the shattered glass entrance.
Esther realized this would be no safe haven for her and the child. Yet she also knew she had to get inside somehow and see what had happened to her old friend. Esther debated for a moment whether or not to hide the child someplace nearby. Then she made up her mind. Lacing her fingers behind her back to give the sleeping boy extra support, she slipped her way with him through the undergrowth brush to the back of the complex.
It was as she hoped: no one had been stationed to protect the gaping hole that had once been the picture window overlooking the courtyard and playing grounds. The familiar lobby was deserted. She was about to slip across to the far side when she heard footsteps descending the staircase.
Esther had barely enough time to duck behind a cracked pillar when two guards entered the lobby. She listened until she could no longer hear them.
Esther sensed Kai stirring in his sling. Now was the moment to get moving. She ran to the staircase, glancing around in case there was anyone else. Then she began to climb.
Even if she had not seen the guards, Esther would have known that strangers had been here. Several sections of the staircase, already fragile, had collapsed and she had to navigate the metal railing instead, praying it held up under her weight.
Joseph saw her anxious face moments later in his doorway.
"You're safe," she said, relieved.
His eyes lit up with surprise when he noticed what she was carrying on her back.
"Is that a baby?" he said, as he drew close. Joseph had only seen infants a few times in his life, and that was many years ago. This one was awake, staring at him with a comically quizzical expression.
One cat, Ginger, pawed at Esther's leg, expecting food. Annoyed, she shooed the animal away.
"We have to get out of here," Esther said. "Levi's men are downstairs."
"Oh, I know," Joseph said. All the time watching the child with fascination, he explained the situation, why the hotel was guarded, how they had discovered his private supply of water.
Esther blinked. "So that's what Levi meant? There really is clean water? And it's here? And you knew all along?"
Joseph glanced up at Esther, taking note of new details. He was impressed by her new gravity, her mature attitude, not to mention the band around her wrist and the baby. This kept him from responding right away.
"Are you even listening?" she asked. "Why didn't you ever _say_ anything?"
The one answer Joseph could give seemed likely to inspire more criticism. So he just shrugged.
"You always offered me a cup of it when I visited," she said. "I guess that was your way of saying."
Esther shook her head, marveling at Joseph's cluelessness, though with obvious affection.
"Here's what I think," he offered. "There's water deep underground. And it pushed up through layers of rock and sand somehow. I think that's what cleaned it. That's all I know."
In Esther's face, he saw a new, more surprising emotion. He'd never seen it in the eyes of another person. It was respect.
"So what's all _that_?" she said, stepping inside.
She gestured at the calendars that lay scattered around the apartment. Before, at best, she had indulged him about them.
Joseph was rather proud of the simplicity of one particular creation, a circular wooden board. Now, he explained that so many hours formed a day, then a week, then a month, and so on. But instead of needing to create new lines, his calendar circled back on itself every seven days. Months and years were indicated by advances in either green or blue pegs.
Esther listened, nodding here and there, asking the occasional question. She didn't whistle with impatience or smile politely, as she used to do. She pointed to the single red peg set in the center of the board.
"And what's _that_?" she asked.
"The day I was born."
Esther gasped at this, which perplexed Joseph. Everyone in Prin had some idea of when and where they were born, if only in crude approximations counted on fingers or scrawled on walls. It was the relative surety of his calculations, as well as the elegance of his presentation, that impressed Esther, he assumed.
"I'm—" he started to give my age.
"Don't tell me," she said. " _I'll_ figure it out."
She used his calendar, competently, her fingers moving, her eyes darting. Joseph watched, feeling a new emotion himself: pride that he could only describe as paternal.
Esther gasped again, recoiling from the calendar. Then she turned and stared at him.
"Twenty-six," she said. "You're twenty-six years old!"
Joseph squirmed a bit, embarrassed. To hear it said like that made him feel so old. But then, he supposed he was.
Levi walked with painful slowness back to his office, followed by Caleb. The two were now the only ones left in the Source.
The older brother seemed dazed, unsteady on his feet. But that was all the weakness he was willing to reveal. Even beaten and powerless, Levi still held his ground, now worth nothing.
When Caleb thought about what his brother had done, of all of the pain and misery he had caused, hatred instinctively surged in his breast. He deserved no mercy; why should he, when he had never shown any to anyone else? The world would be a better place if he were to throttle Levi now, to squeeze the slender white throat until he extinguished his life forever.
And yet, he hesitated.
Levi had accomplished everything on his own, using only willpower and intelligence. What might he have achieved had he not been so tortured a soul? How would their lives have been different if their parents had kept him instead of casting him out? _It was such a waste,_ thought Caleb, with a sense of profound sadness.
Despite his anger, Caleb could not deny the blood that still linked them.
"So," Levi said, his back still to his brother. "I see you've saved me for yourself." With his hand balanced on the edge of his desk, he seemed calm, as if resigned to his fate.
"What?"
Levi turned. "You could have let those animals kill me," he said. "And yet you didn't. I don't blame you . . . I'd do the same thing. Though of course, I'd enjoy it. I suppose you're going to have misgivings."
From the taunting way he spoke, Caleb realized that even now, Levi was jockeying for position, trying to anger him in order to throw him off balance. Yet Caleb wouldn't take the bait. Now that he had Esther and Kai, Caleb no longer felt any bloodlust. The urge for revenge had been purged from him. What would one more casualty achieve? All along, Caleb had only been trying to right his world after it had been wrenched askew.
Rage and revenge would not be his constant, lifelong companions. He would make certain of that.
"Not everyone's the same," he said.
"That's what you think," replied his brother.
But Caleb refused to be drawn into an argument. "I can't deny I never want to see you again," he said. "But I'm not going to kill you."
This surprised Levi, who raised one eyebrow. From his expression, however, it was clear he was not so much relieved as amused and more than a little contemptuous.
"So what do you propose instead?" he mocked. "That I promise to reform? To do good works for the people of Prin?"
Again, Caleb refused to be drawn into a fight. "I don't care what you do," he said, "as long as you leave and don't come back. Ever. Take whatever you need or can carry. Though I'd advise you not to look back."
Levi was toying with one of the silver rings on his fingers. Then he shook his head.
"Thank you for your generous offer," he said. "But I'm not going anywhere. You see, there'd be no point. Because I'm as good as dead, anyway. Courtesy of my beloved."
Caleb gave him a sharp look and the older boy smiled. "Michal slipped rainwater into my wine," he continued. "Who would have thought she was capable of thinking that one up, much less carrying it off?"
"You mean you're—" Caleb started, but his brother cut him off.
"Dying," he said. He was incapable of hiding the self-pity in his voice. "That's another way you've gotten the better deal, you see. Girls fall in love with you. They poison me."
Then, suddenly, unbelievably, Levi's face crumpled. He started to cry.
He held open his arms and, for a moment, Caleb didn't understand. Then Levi took him by the shoulders. As Caleb, confused, moved into his brother's arms, Levi pulled him close.
To his shock, Caleb realized that Levi, too, yearned for connection, the kind you have with blood, with family. Caleb returned the embrace, astonished by the warmth he felt.
All at once, there was the rumble of machinery. Caleb tried to turn but Levi's arms had turned into a vice. By the time he wrenched himself free, the doors had shut, sealing the two inside.
Levi was behind his desk, pulling something out from beneath it. He now hoisted it up, balancing it on the arm of his chair.
It was a large metal can of Able Accelerant.
He shrugged, as if to apologize for the obviousness of his choice. Caleb lunged across the wooden surface in vain. Levi managed to keep the desk between them as he ripped off the plastic cap. Then he began splashing the can's contents in every direction, across his desk and among his papers, filling the air with its dizzying fumes. Even as his brother was on him, trying to wrestle it away, Levi managed to hold on to it, upending it onto any surface he could find, dousing both of them with fuel.
Caleb lost his footing on the slippery floor, and his brother fell from his grasp. Levi stood across from him, panting a little, his eyes glittering. He had fished something from his pocket, which he held aloft. It was a plastic firestarter.
"It'll be nice," he said, "for us to finally be together."
Caleb felt a weird stillness overtake him, as if time had slowed to nothingness. He could see his life laid out in hundreds of strands; everything in his past was happening again at once. He saw the face of his mother. The sight of his newborn son, slick with blood and afterbirth. Esther's eyes. And he saw his brother and himself as if from a great distance and he realized that he was not afraid.
"The world doesn't need any more orphans," he said. "You above all should know that."
His brother stared at him, then recoiled, as if punched in the stomach. _What did he see?_ Caleb wondered. _Did Levi picture Kai and his own infant self merging, as injustice was handed down to another generation? Did he know that, this time, it would be his fault?_
Caleb would never know.
Levi reached under his desk. With a grinding sound, the door began to open, then stopped, leaving just enough room for someone to fit underneath.
"Go," he said.
Caleb looked at him one last time, then was gone.
Alone, Levi stood near his desk, immobile. He considered Caleb's offer, the prospect of being Shunned himself. But where would he go? The Source was his home, the only true home he had ever had. And he knew the poison was working its way through his body, invisible and unstoppable, like rot taking over a carcass.
If he closed his eyes, he could practically feel it.
He gazed at the partly open door, then pressed the unseen button, raising it.
As if in a trance, Levi walked alone through the massive store. Unseeing, he passed aisle after aisle stacked high with crates made of cardboard and wood, all labeled. poland spring water. golden blossom honey. domino sugar. gold medal flour. Every single one was empty. All they were good for, really, was tinder.
He reached his destination. It was the room in which the gasoline was kept, the untold gallons and buckets and bottles of fuel that the people Prin had been collecting for years, keeping Levi and his people in light and comfort. He was holding the nearly empty can of fuel. He fingered the firestarter, idly.
The explosion would be heard for miles.
Just then, Esther and Joseph felt a tremor. They rushed to the window and saw the rising smoke coming from the Source.
Shock and anxiety passed over Esther's face.
"Caleb," she said quietly.
But there was another reason for worry. Joseph's home, previously weakened by earthquakes and other disasters, now began to shift. Both Esther and Joseph stood stock-still, hoping for it to end. But the rattling did not; it grew greater. The blast had been strong enough to threaten the hotel's very stability.
"Joseph," Esther said, "we have to get out of here. Now."
Joseph knew that she was right. Yet it was more difficult than even he expected to round up ten cats. He trusted several of them (Stumpy, Malawi, and a few of the others) to follow on foot. But the others he had to hunt down and stuff into their nylon carrying bags, a process that involved much yowling, wriggling, and scratching. He also grabbed a few belongings: a folder of newspaper clippings, some books, a calendar.
Meanwhile, Esther kept a grim watch by the door, her face drawn with impatience and concern. When Joseph was ready, she took three of his cat carriers without a word and hoisted them onto her shoulders, where they competed for space with the baby. She handed him her messenger bag. Then they set off, a strange caravan of people and animals.
They were no more than several steps down when the staircase started to falter.
At the same moment, plaster and rubble began to rain down on them. They froze for a moment; then quickened their pace. Through choking white dust, Joseph could see cracks widening in the walls. In some places, the stairs themselves looked as if they were about to shear off completely. Entire sections of the staircase started to vanish. The cats could leap over these gaps with ease, but the humans were not so gifted. Esther helped Joseph as they clung to the central railing and worked their way across.
They were only two flights down when more fissures became apparent.
This whole time, the child had not cried, even as the staircase shook so much that the very bones in Joseph's body seemed to rattle. In front of him, he saw that Esther's dark hair and red sweatshirt were whitened with plaster dust, as were the baby's head and what had once been dark green cat carriers. When she abruptly turned to face him, Esther's eyes were like black stones in a field of snow.
Above, they heard the sound of a massive metal beam breaking loose. It came crashing down a few feet away from where they stood, shearing off another section of the staircase and narrowly missing one of the cats.
Esther shot Joseph a look that was half plea, half command.
"I have to go fast now," she said. "You're going to have to keep up."
Joseph nodded.
Without being asked, she took his two cat carriers and added them to her overburdened shoulders. Then she seemed to coil up like a spring before she took off. Joseph watched with open-mouthed amazement as she leaped off a shard of ground, made brief contact with the wall, pushed off with her foot and grabbed the handrail, swung sideways and landed on a ledge one flight below.
There Esther stood, looking up as she waited for him.
Joseph had to shake himself out of his astonishment. Even his cats seemed surprised by what they had seen. Then he did his best to follow.
He could not keep up with his friend; it was impossible. Yet they did manage to go much faster. Joseph, however, was not used to such exertion or excitement. His heart pounded and his legs shook. He suggested more than once that she would go faster without him. But Esther stayed with him, always finding a secure spot or foothold where they could both rest.
They were close to the lobby by the time the ceiling began to break up more. A cascade of white dust crashed down on them from above like a waterfall. Joseph could not see, his eyes and nose and mouth filled with plaster, and he choked and coughed.
"Come," Esther called over the roar of collapsing bricks. Joseph felt the pressure of her hand in his. Blindly, he stumbled after her, down a few more steps. He landed on some rubble and stumbled, twisting his ankle and giving out a cry. But Esther refused to let him stop. She pulled him into a clear area, which he only vaguely recognized as his lobby. Still rubbing his eyes, he let her guide him across the ruined space for what he realized would be the last time, until he sensed she was leading him up and across the empty frame of what was once the picture window.
"Now run," she said.
And they did. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, Joseph ran as fast as he could across the courtyard, the cats close on his heels. Esther sprinted in front of him, still wearing cats and baby in a way that might have seemed funny if it wasn't so impressive. They ran past the asphalt court with its lone basketball hoop, past the lot filled with abandoned cars, and still they kept going.
"Don't look back," Esther said.
So Joseph didn't. Behind him, he could hear a rumbling that grew to a roar that seemed to suck the sound out of the world.
Without looking, he knew what had happened. His home had been destroyed.
Joseph's heart was still pounding wildly, especially when he realized how closely they had come to being destroyed with it. He thought about all that he had lost: nearly all of his library, calendars, and timepieces. These were precious, beloved items he had spent a lifetime collecting, repairing, constructing. All he had left was what he had with him at the moment.
But he was brought back to himself by the feel of something at his ankles.
It was Stumpy, winding herself about his legs and complaining in her tiny voice. Joseph did a quick headcount and marveled. All of his cats were accounted for and, by all appearances, eager for a snack. He shook off his regrets and turned to Esther.
"Oh well," he said. He tried to sound philosophical. "It was only a matter of time."
They turned. Before them was a collection of boys dressed in black hoods, Levi's boys who had been guarding the building. They, too, had escaped and now stood, staring at the wreckage, too astonished to be dangerous any more.
"Look!" Esther said.
All around them, water was seeping up from the ground and forming puddles amidst the rubble of bricks, mortar, and steel. Soon great geysers of water began erupting from the base of the spring, freed from the ground by the disruption.
Esther stared at the sight for a long moment. Then she glanced up at Joseph, who nodded. She took a deep breath; then in one quick gesture, she knelt and dipped a cupped hand into the spray, brought it to her lips, and drank. Then she sat back on her heels in the mud, blinking, as if stunned by her own audacity.
Suddenly, she was not alone. The guards were kneeling, as well. They pulled their hoods off and tossed them to the side. Cold water rained down on their upturned faces, their open mouths, drenching them and leaving streaks on their gritty skin and filthy hair. The air rang with their shouts of pleasure.
Then Joseph turned. Before what used to be the front of his building, a boy was dismounting from a battered bicycle. Esther gave a cry and rose to her feet. She handed the baby to Joseph, much to his dismay. The child kicked his feet with displeasure, as the older boy cooed incompetently at him.
Esther flew to the stranger and kissed him, which made Joseph blush. Then she pulled him over. He looked like he had been through a hell no one could imagine, and yet he had survived.
"Joseph," she said. "This is Caleb. That's his son, Kai."
She told Caleb all that had happened, even while she peppered him with questions. Then she showed him where water bubbled up from the ground.
"Look," she said. "This is what Levi was searching for all these years."
She had a new thought. Joseph had set her messenger bag on the ground. From it, she snatched Sarah's book, which she handed to him.
"Tell us what this means," she said. "I know that you'll know."
Joseph opened the book, marveling at the information and illustrations inside. And after looking them over, he _did_ know.
Stumbling a bit, he explained that the maps were not just of roads above ground, but of underground waterbeds and formations, as well. He explained some of the words that they couldn't decipher. Finally, he flipped through the book to show them the most important map of all.
"Saratoga Springs," he said, pointing. "It must be where we are. It was a town built on a mineral spring, a long time ago. Look—here's where my home might have been."
Esther and Caleb shared a puzzled glance. "But how come it's called Prin?" he asked.
Joseph paused, then brightened, pointing at the letters. "There was a town sign, with the whole name. But 'Prin' is all that's left. See?" He covered the other letters to demonstrate.
_Saratoga Springs. Prin._
Joseph glanced at Esther. He could tell she was about to ask why he had never figured this out before, but then she stopped. She knew she wouldn't have listened, just months ago.
She was so much younger then.
They all were.
Beneath its bleached surface, the soil was surprisingly dark and rich.
When the hole was deep enough, Caleb hoisted himself out. Knocking the clay off his shovel, he joined Skar and Joseph. The variant girl was tending Kai, holding him on her hip and bouncing him up and down to keep him quiet. Having become more comfortable around babies, Joseph made funny faces in order to amuse him. But then he remembered that this was a solemn occasion and he stopped.
Off to the side, Esther stood in silence with the body of her sister held in her arms.
Wrapped in a white sheet, Sarah was curled on her side like a sleeping cat. She was oddly heavy for one so frail, her limbs stiff and unyielding. It was how Esther had found her that morning. In death, the terrible fever had broken for good; the unexpected iciness of her skin was a shock. With the lines in her face relaxed, Sarah had seemed at peace and almost pretty again, as if the illness had never happened.
And it was a good death, if such things existed.
Sarah had died at home; against the decree of the town, Esther refused to allow her to be Shunned. Over the weeks, she kept her in the shattered remains of their home and tended to her, feeding and changing her like a baby even as the lesions spread and the dementia grew.
For most of the time, Sarah slept. This was a blessing; the pain and the fever were almost too much for anyone to bear.
But early in the mornings, before the heat of her body would spike and she would lose sense of where she was, Sarah would have a few moments of lucidity. Esther would sit next to her, feeding her water from a spoon, and the sisters would talk. Without acknowledging it, both girls understood that an entire lifetime of unspoken thoughts, confidences, and memories had to be shared in a few precious weeks. From outside the bedroom door, Caleb could hear only a few whispered words, even an occasional peal of laughter.
And now that Esther had finally grown to know her sister, it was time for her to take her leave.
She handed the body to Caleb; then she jumped down into the freshly dug grave. Reaching up her arms, she took Sarah. She held her sister for a moment. It was maybe the third or fourth time she had done so in her life; it would be the last, as well. Then she placed the curled-up body on its side, on the exposed red clay.
"Good-bye," she said softly.
Filling the grave did not take long; she, Skar, Caleb, and Joseph took turns with the two shovels they had brought. The one not digging took care of Kai; Joseph was eager for his turn.
Bright-eyed, the child seemed enchanted with everything he saw. He marveled at the brown and brittle leaves that littered the dark soil. He put dead grass and bits of twig in his mouth and spat them out, laughing and babbling.
Now he heard a sound and looked overhead so abruptly, he fell backward and sat down. Joseph assumed he was frightened and wondered if one of them should pick him up and tend to him, comfort his fears.
But Kai didn't mind. Above him, he saw birds flying in a V, their honking cries echoing, as they journeyed to a better place.
And he clapped his hands with pure delight.
## EPILOGUE
WITH LEVI GONE, EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED. HIS OLD LAWS NO LONGER applied: Overnight, the jobs were meaningless, Esther's presence in town was unquestioned, and drinkable water was in endless supply. With the crisis over, people had turned their attentions to rebuilding the town and pooling the remaining resources so everyone would be fed.
After helping defeat Levi, the variants had mostly retreated to their camp. Still, it was apparent they were aware of the town's need. Gifts appeared on the main street, early in the morning before anyone was awake: two full sacks of cornmeal and one of rice, remains of Levi's payments. A newly slaughtered deer. Three fat partridges. There was a spirit of holiday in the air, so much so that it was hard not to feel optimistic.
Yet Esther for one was uncertain. It was not just the fact that the people of Prin were reduced to living in shanties and lean-tos or amid the rubble of what had been their homes. The wreckage of the Source still stank of fire and smoke and burning plastic. Despite Prin's current bounty, its supplies of food would soon be exhausted.
Esther did not doubt the strength or the will of the people. More important, she saw hope in Caleb's righteousness and in the wisdom the two of them had gained at such a painful price. She saw hope in their love, a bond that seemed to grow stronger with each day. And she saw it in the eyes of the child, Kai.
There was certainly a future for them; that much she knew. Only she was not so certain it would be in Prin.
For now, however, Esther put her doubts aside. Tonight the entire town was celebrating, and although the afternoon sun was already low in the sky she still had to fetch Joseph.
With his home destroyed, her old friend was living with her and Caleb. Yet he seemed frightened to even venture outdoors and had to be escorted everywhere, coaxed like a small child.
Upstairs, Joseph was waiting for her with a tense expression.
"Are you ready?" she asked. "Caleb and Kai are already there, with everyone else."
Joseph nodded. Esther noticed that he had smoothed down his hair and put on a relatively clean T-shirt.
"Come," she said, patiently holding out her hand. But still he hesitated.
"You know," he said suddenly, "it actually _is_ a holiday today."
Off her puzzled look, he continued in a rush. "According to my old calendars, today is a day when people used to celebrate abundance, while preparing for the hard months ahead. It is a day they called 'Thanksgiving.'"
Esther paused.
"Thanksgiving," she repeated, as if to herself. Her expression was thoughtful.
"And it is also," Joseph added, blushing, "the first party I have ever attended. And as the new town elder, too."
"Imagine that," Esther said. Then she met his eyes and smiled.
Wordlessly, the two headed downstairs and onto the street. The sun had set and for a moment, Joseph held back, frightened by the blackness that seemed to engulf them. Yet Esther saw that there was already a sliver of moon overhead, casting a pale yet steady light. And if you lifted your head and sniffed, you could make out the faint but inviting smell of roasting venison and the far-off, happy sounds of festivities.
Esther confidently led the way through the darkness.
## **ABOUT THE AUTHOR**
**SUSAN KIM & LAURENCE KLAVAN** cowrote the graphic novels CITY OF SPIES and BRAIN CAMP.
Susan is also a five-time Emmy nominee for her work in children's television and a Writers Guild Award winner for best documentary. She wrote the stage adaptation of Amy Tan's THE JOY LUCK CLUB, teaches writing at Goddard College, and is a blogger for the Huffington Post. When she was growing up, there was a chain-link fence behind her apartment that led to a small woods. After dinner, all the kids would sneak through to play in a world where no adults intruded. The memory of that has always stayed with her.
Laurence's previous novels include THE CUTTING ROOM and THE SHOOTING SCRIPT; he won an Edgar Award for the novel MRS. WHITE, and his short-story collection is forthcoming. He received two Drama Desk nominations for the book and lyrics to _Bed and Sofa_ , a musical produced by New York's Vineyard Theatre. As kids, he and his three brothers used to make epic movies in their backyard, reenacting the Alamo, the signing of the Magna Carta . . . and the end of the world. This last one involved a lot of fighting over food and property, which was, of course, what they did every day in real life.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
## BACK AD
## COPYRIGHT
Cover art © 2013 by Colin Anderson
Cover type © 2013 by Alex Beltechi
Cover design by Tom Forget
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
WASTELAND. Copyright © 2013 by Susan Kim and Laurence Klavan.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kim, Susan.
Wasteland / by Susan Kim and Laurence Klavan. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In a postapocalyptic world where everyone dies at age nineteen and rainwater contains a killer virus, loners Esther and Caleb band together with a group of mutant, hermaphroditic outsiders to fight a corrupt ruler and save the town of Prin.
ISBN 978-0-06-211851-6 (hardcover bdg.)
EPub Edition January ISBN 9780062118530
[1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Virus diseases—Fiction. 3. Mutation (Biology)—Fiction. 4. Science Fiction.] I. Klavan, Laurence. II. Title.
PZ7.K55992Was 2013 | 2012026744
---|---
[Fic]—dc23 |
* * *
13 14 15 16 17 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
## ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
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| that neither of them could place. Then, they recognized what it was; and the realization sent a deep chill through them both.
It was the baying of wild dogs.
On the far end of Prin, the townspeople tried to flee, but it was no use.
A dog had his teeth buried in the leg of a girl as she kicked at it, vainly attempting to drag herself into a doorway; her white robes were torn and soaked through with her blood. Two other dogs set upon a boy who was on his way to a Gleaning. Swerving, he fell off his bicycle into the dust of the road, where another dog slashed at his arms as he tried to shield his face.
Other dogs were galloping and lunging at anyone unlucky enough to be trying to escape. There were at least two dozen of them in all, skeletal and cringing beasts that were nevertheless fast and strong, crazed now with the bloodlust of the hunt.
Behind them, their owners, Slayd and three of his warriors, surveyed the road and gave commands.
Slayd was not without misgivings. He and his tribe used these dogs to hunt wild animals, never people. Yet Levi had been clear: He wanted something different, more terrifying.
The variant leader noticed someone attempting to crawl to safety under an abandoned car and whistled three of the dogs over. He made a soft, chucking sound and the animals obeyed.
It was the red-haired boy from Caleb's class, one of the town's handful of trained protectors. All week, he had been practicing his punches and club work; but what good was a small leather sap or even a metal pipe against three wild animals? One of the dogs seized his ankle. As the boy screamed and tried to fight it off, the others managed to drag him out.
There was a flurry of canine bodies as they piled on, the sounds of growling and snapping, and the piercing shrieks of the boy. When the screams abruptly stopped, Slayd whistled the dogs over. They did not want to obey at first; a variant warrior had to go to them, brandishing a club to break them up. When the dogs joined the rest of their pack, their eyes glittered madly and their muzzles were stained red.
The townspeople who were lucky enough to have been indoors watched from windows. A few who had been attacked were able to stumble to safety; others were somehow pulled or carried inside, bloodied and torn. But there was no way to warn the rest of the town. People could only look on, listening to the sounds of mayhem as Slayd and his men continued their bloody way toward the center of Prin, their pack of dogs roaming ahead and freely attacking anything that moved.
Yet one boy stood, unmoving, by the side of the road.
It was Caleb.
As one by one the people of Prin grew aware of his presence, word started to spread. He was their protector; only he could save them from this latest calamity. His backpack held his weapon, the terrible instrument that could strike down five men in as many seconds. Surely, he would use it now, take it and spring into action.
_He will help us. He will protect us._
Yet their certitude turned to confusion, then doubt, then sheer panic and disbelief. As the devastating attacks continued, Caleb still didn't move. He remained frozen in the eye of a hurricane, the mindless blur of maddened dogs and snarls and screams, the desperate attempts of people trying to escape. Caleb had been drawn there by the instinct to protect. Yet he knew he could do nothing without risking the life of his son.
In the near distance, hidden behind a dusty truck, Esther also stood, motionless and white faced.
The townspeople shifted their attentions from Caleb. There was a sudden commotion from the other end of the street. It was the agonized howl of a wounded animal.
A wild dog lay in the gutter, its legs kicking feebly as it attempted to bite the feathered shaft that protruded from beneath its ribs. It gave up, muzzle smeared with its own blood; and as the scrawny body gave a final shudder, the brown head lolled back, mouth and eyes open in death.
Striding into the center of the chaos was Levi.
He was flanked by six of his boys, faces covered by their black hoods. Three carried loaded hunting bows. When one spied a wild dog, he took aim and fired. Already, they had shot six or seven, and the air was full of the screams and yelps of dead and dying canines.
As he approached, Levi's eyes caught Caleb's for a moment. He smiled faintly, before turning to a guard.
"That dog," he said, pointing down the street.
Slayd and his men were the last to notice what was going on; the variant leader appeared stunned when the largest dog of the pack, the animal closest to his side, let out a sudden yelp and collapsed at his feet.
He whirled around and with a look of utter shock, saw Levi and his men twenty feet behind him. Two of the hooded guards had their bows raised, aiming directly at him.
"Levi!" he shouted. "What are you—"
But Levi cut him off. "I give you and your tribe ten seconds to get out of Prin," he said.
Slayd's look of confusion turned into one of pure hatred. There was no way to comply with any kind of dignity. With a quick nod to his men, he and the other variants sprinted down the street and were soon gone.
The people of Prin, unaccustomed to good news, were moving about the street in an impromptu celebration. The ragged sound of cheering carried all the way up into the apartment above Starbucks.
Inside, Sarah was getting ready to join them.
At last, there was something to be happy about, after Esther's Shunning, something in which to lose herself. It was a welcome distraction to select the right colored robes to wear, a soft pink that flattered her increasingly pale complexion. Now, she combed her hair one last time in front of her small mirror.
Earlier, when she had heard the first reports of Levi's victory from her open window, she felt almost dizzy with pride. As she recalled the lingering kiss he had given her that night in the Source, Sarah shivered, closing her eyes. She only wished Esther was there to share this moment.
For she had a gift for Levi, something that would all but ensure her future with him.
Sarah took it out from under her bed. It was the book he had asked her to find: _Topographical and Hydrospheric Tables of the American Northeast_. The words meant nothing to her. All she knew was that he wanted it, and so she had found it. It was as simple as that.
She had spent dozens of hours searching in vain, wasting early mornings as well as long nights after working all day. She had picked through the crumbled remains of the town library and pored over the thousands of waterlogged and deteriorated books that filled the shelves of a large store off a Prin side street. Stubborn though she was, she nearly gave up hope; it was like trying to locate a single pebble in a giant field.
But after racking her brain, she was able to remember where she had found the first volume. During a sudden rainstorm years before, Sarah had been forced to take refuge in a cluster of crumbling buildings called "College." In a basement, she had stumbled upon a cache of books. Squatters were burning the texts to ward off vermin. When Sarah asked, they allowed her to take a few volumes. She later used them to help teach Levi how to read.
Sarah had retraced her steps to the basement, now deserted. And, miraculously, she had found the companion book, charred and mildewed but still readable, on its long-forgotten shelf.
Sarah anticipated telling Levi the details of her search. She would have to phrase it so it didn't sound like she was bragging; that would be unseemly. But he was sure to understand and then compliment her on her cleverness, her resourcefulness.
It was not only her own future she was considering. Levi was the only one capable of making and bending the rules of Prin. Once the two of them were partnered, he would surely listen to her entreaties and lift the sentence on Esther, overruling Rafe. Then her sister would be allowed to return.
Once outside, Sarah found that the streets were thronged with people, hoarse with shouting. She found she didn't mind. Laughing, she allowed the crowd to bump against her, guiding her along, as she hugged the book to her chest. More and more people joined them, and together, they surged forward in a delirious mass.
Everyone rounded a corner, and there, partly visible through the crowd, was the boy they were looking for.
"Levi!"
Sarah's voice was drowned out by all the cheers, the shouting. She pushed her way forward through the crowd, intent on reaching him.
"Levi!" she called again. Jubilant, she waved the book at him. "I've got it! I found it!"
As she squeezed her way through the packed bodies, there were fresh cheers around her as Levi climbed onto the hood of a battered SUV. Now that he could be seen by all, he turned and waved at the townspeople. Was he acknowledging her?
There was a gap in the crowd and Sarah stepped into it. She was almost there | 2,005 |
Do you remember Uriah Heep? He's the arrogant creep in David Copperfield who consistently proclaims, "I'm so 'umble!" He captures our imagination because the struggle to rid ourselves of ego and self-consciousness is fraught with challenge and contradiction. You don't simply slam-dunk the ego through a bottomless basket, out-of-site, out-of-mind so to speak. And if by some miracle you do, you're likely to be beat in the game by a more refined ego that just can't get over how successful you are.
The struggle is as old as the first Friday of the world's existence. Adam and Eve ate from the tree and the world was forever changed. Innocence and absence of awareness of self were abruptly exchanged for ego-driven living where we watch ourselves and others, watch them watch us, and on and on in an ever deepening whirlpool of angst. In the post Tree of Knowledge reality, our ego leaves us feeling isolated from the Oneness of existence and from others, often scheming, and always yearning to regain that state of simply being.
But we can't shy away from the challenge because being "'umble" encapsulates the purpose of existence. We are asked to pierce through the curtain of cosmic amnesia and reveal – first and foremost to ourselves – that ego is a delusion. The raison d'être of creation is that we discard the false and acquired consciousness we imbibed with that first bite, thereby regaining access to reality as it truly is – entirely one with G‑d.
The fifth of the emotional abilities of the soul is called Hod, or "glory," and it's all about humility. It's about experiencing the glory of the other; being one with the Source; ridding ourselves of false notions of the way things are.
The name is etymologically related to three other Hebrew words. The first is modeh, and means "admission." The second is todah, which connotes "gratitude," and the third hoda'ah, or "praise." As we will see, each of these is deeply connected to the notion of selflessness embodied by Hod.
Contrary to Uriah Heep's bloating himself up with proclamations of humility, it is really the ability to be small that truly makes us great. Our base self believes we have power when we are ego-present. The more solid our ego, the more likely we are to push ahead and succeed in the world! However, true power comes from what the mystics call ayin, "nothingness." It is at the moment that we get our ego out of the way that we can begin to plummet the depths of who we really are.
This nothingness is not the "absence of all else." Rather it is the existence of an idea or entity as it stands in its source in a state of no-thing. At that place, deep in the source, everything that is yet to manifest from it is non-recognizable. It doesn't yet exist in an individuated way.
Take for example the flames that rise from coals. I sit by the fireside and watch them emerge and sway. They are flames, not coals, albeit that they come from within the coals. Yet if I were to cut a coal open, I'd find glowing carbon. I can actually see the heat that generates the flame energy but there, within the actual coal, there is no flame. The flame exists independently once it emerges, but not so within its source.
A deeper analogy of this notion of something losing identity when it unites with its<|fim_middle|> approve another reader's comment – and saw yours. And today is Lag b'Omer! Wow. I love when that happens!
Thanks for your words and good wishes. | source is that of the sweetness in an apple. I bite into one. I taste its sweetness. Yet when I cut it, I find no evidence for what my taste-buds experience. Even if you were to say to me, "Well of course! Taste is aural and sight visual!" I'd challenge you to try identifying where exactly in that apple the sweetness originates. In the sugars? Where in the sugar?! In which molecules? Is it in the carbon? The hydrogen? Oxygen? You get what I'm saying. We can't point to where it originates not because we can't see it but because at that point, the sweetness exists in such an essential kind of way that it loses its individual identity.
Take this one layer down. Think for a moment of a flint stone. I'd contend that they've rivaled diamonds in their usefulness to humankind. These lumpy looking rocks have the appearance of greased glass when cut open, and prior to the invention of the match had been used to start fires around the world and across time. Tinder boxes were the match boxes of their day, generating sparks and fires from rock. So much for the similarity, but a flint stone is a far cry from a coal. In the latter, there's at least some visual evidence of the flame that emerges. This is entirely not so in the stone. It's cold and grey. Yet embedded within is a hot and red spark. That spark is the very opposite of the rock. It exists there but so hidden in the source that there's no way to identify it.
Each of the three analogies illustrates the notion that the more something is united with its source, the more it disappears. Each affords us a mental glimpse of the subtlety and layers of the disappearance act.
The same thing applies at all levels of reality. Matter emerges from spirit but you'd be hard-pressed to find it there.
At each level, a more refined existence descends into a more material realm. Each lower soul power can be identified once it separates from its source, yet if you'd "cut open" the higher soul power, you would not find the lower one there. It's not that it doesn't exist in the source. It does. But there it exists in a way of non-being.
So much for the philosophy! What does this have to do with our lives?
Getting into the space of Hod will change it dramatically. In our source, we can be anything we desire. Because our essence contains all of who we are, when we touch it, we have the ability to manifest as whatever we choose, at any given moment. We're not locked in to one way of being. We no longer have to think of ourselves with any specific label or identity.
In our essence we are both daughter, friend, CEO, comedienne, philosopher. We are all ways of knowing, and all feelings – love, awe, compassion. We are sitting stillness and dynamic action. There where we are no-thing we are everything. Precisely in the place of non-attachment we become infinite.
If you live your life from the place of who you are at a revealed level, you'll find yourself on a rollercoaster. You never truly touch who you are or satisfy your deepest urges. Whatever soul or psycho or physical fix you feed your revealed self, at some point you'll need to move on to the next ism or sweet tasting delicacy. That's because the individuated manifestations of who we are, are limited entities. They themselves come and go, how much more so their objects of desire. Deeper, feeding ourselves at that level can't provide eternal solutions because it never really gets to our core. So the core essential self keeps on looking for what it needs as it rollercoasts along.
If you're in touch with your essence however, you don't "outgrow" the blessings life brings. When you come from non-being, which in truth is all-being, anything you encounter is informed by eternity. It expands by virtue of where you're coming at it from. In turn, you're more receptive to the world. Your experiences can now feed back in to your innermost point and nourish the soul.
Certainly we're not meant to remain in our source. The fire within the flint stone must be brought to revelation. Conversely though, we have to be able to retrace who we are to our personal ground-zero. We must have access to our inner essence.
Take for example our love for G‑d. It cannot remain in the heart. At the same time, it cannot be limited to externals. Love that is dependent on anything will die. True love is not because it doesn't take on any form connected to the revealed self. When you love G‑d in this way, you can bring that love in to any form you choose. You can love your parent, spouse, child; you can love the sound of the shofar, the taste of matzah. You can even love mangos and jazz. You're infinite and free.
And when you need to, you can feel the opposite feeling. You can respect, condemn something, push forward or pull back, whatever's called for in the moment. Your whole existence becomes a manifestation of the oneness that you are at your core.
How are we to access this place inside of us? How do we risk becoming a no-thing?!
Between the false sense of "I-am" and true awareness that "I am no-thing other than a part of G‑d," lies the danger of falling apart. It's not for naught that we're taught that of four sages who entered the orchard of the Torah, including its highest and most mystical dimensions, only Rabbi Akiva emerged whole and in peace. As we let go of delusion, we are fragile.
It's a Catch Twenty-two. At some level, you can't let go of falseness until you're connected to the essence. But you can't access the essence until you relinquish your false beliefs and the idol of ego.
The problem itself though speaks of the solution. In order to really want to break through and strip the ego of its delusions, you have to have already had contact with your core. It's only because of the fact that deep within you already have all you need in your essential self that you can step out and tackle the task at hand. The first step is to acknowledge that. Do that both to yourself and to G‑d. Then be quiet, try to eliminate the mental static that keeps you out of touch with your true self. The acknowledgement and silence carry you inside.
It's also vital to recognize that the answer lies not only within but also without. The "without" I'm talking of is the Torah. Our sages describe the Torah as G‑d's mind and desire, His wisdom and will. And whereas, as we have been talking, we are distinct from our thoughts or feelings, G‑d by contrast is One. Consequently, His essence permeates the entirety of the Torah. When we learn and understand something of the Torah, we are taking hold of our Creator!
The practical implication is that even if you're having a really down day, stuck in the bits and pieces of existence with no access to your core, all is not lost. You can still re-enter your Divine space through the doorway of the Torah. Although the Torah "descends" through every level of reality seemingly moving away from G‑d's "essence" and "core," it is forever bound with the Creator and thereby an infinite Tree of Life.
Whether you're a sophisticated Uriah Heep who's whole reality is based on falseness and delusion, or whether you've never contemplated playing the 'umility game, all is not lost. You do have the ability to allow the idol of selfhood and independence to die because you already have the truth within. Couple that with the access you have to carry existence beyond through the study of Torah and you're well on your way to living from the inside out.
How though does all we have said apply to the concepts of admission, gratitude and praise we mentioned at the outset?
Admission is owning up to the truth. It's walking away from a lie. Admitting to G‑d by way of example means this: G‑d says, "I am the only True Existence." We by contrast say, "There is nothing other than ME. I and nothing else exists!" To admit to G‑d means I walk away from the lie of ego.
How can you admit to G‑d that you don't exist? Only when you're in touch with the very deepest level of who you are. Only when you access the part of you that is itself a part of G‑d, and is therefore not dependent on anything, can you make that kind of admission. You can destroy your whole consciousness with that understanding. That's not to say recklessly but in a holy way – you deconstruct the lie about how you've lived and admit to G‑d you don't exist. Then just as oil permeates all it comes in contact with, you essence will permeate all your existence.
Gratitude parallels this dynamic. To say, "Thank you," to really say it, requires that you relinquish your ego. The ego thinks, "If I say thank you, then I'm a nothing." Have you ever noticed that some people can't bring themselves to say the words? They'll say, "That was nice of you," or something similar. But not, "Thank you." Because saying so requires Hod. It's not even the same as, "Thanks." The former puts you in relation to the other in a position of vulnerability. The ego hates that!
The same principle applies to praise. Just as with admission and gratitude, to truly praise someone requires nullification of the ego. This is evident in the underpinnings of praise. First off, it is from a state of humility that you are able to sense the other's greatness. You're not focused on yourself but on the other person. Deeper than that, a non-ego state of consciousness allows you to gain access to what's really beyond you because you're no longer in the way! From there you can begin to experience true wonder, and come to the highest form of praise.
In the old world order, the exile mentality, "big" used to matter. Now, as the world is becoming more refined and is able to climb back up the ladder of cosmic progression, we are able to be small again. Our smallness is a non-being state that empowers us to be infinite. Only when we can be small can we truly connect to others and admit when we are wrong, express our gratitude and offer praise. Which is why in the new world order, small is the new big.
I hope all is well with you. I am always so excited to get your emails in my inbox. Your writing skills are brilliant, and the knowledge that you share is always inspiring and very deep. I do not always get it right away, but eventually the message sinks in and I feel empowered and uplifted.
Divine providence! I had intended to respond to your comment and thank you for your Lag b'Omer wishes…and life happened. Today, years later, I came back to this article to | 2,332 |
Freedom is a man's natural power of doing what he pleases, so far as he is not prevented by force or law.
It is not in the power of even the most crafty dissimulation to conceal love long, where it really is, nor to counterfeit it long where it is not.
Nothing else in the world... not all the armies... is so powerful<|fim_middle|> then only for a short while.
Power is action; the electoral principle is discussion. No political action is possible when discussion is permanently established.
The unleashed power of the atom has changed everything save our modes of thinking and we thus drift toward unparalleled catastrophe.
Man's greatness lies in his power of thought. | as an idea whose time has come.
Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.
The attempt to combine wisdom and power has only rarely been successful and | 45 |
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Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber's Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_.
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Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
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[Illustration:
_E. Burney._ _A Dawson Ph.fc._ _C. Turner_
_Frances Burney._
]
FANNY BURNEY
AND HER FRIENDS
_SELECT PASSAGES FROM HER DIARY AND
OTHER WRITINGS_
EDITED BY
L. B. SEELEY, M.A.
_Sometime Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge_
AUTHOR OF
"HORACE WALPOLE AND HIS WORLD"
_NEW EDITION_
LONDON
SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED
ESSEX STREET, STRAND
1895
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Birth—Parentage—The Macburneys—Early Life of Dr. Burney—Fulk 1-31
Greville—Esther Sleepe—Lynn—Poland Street—Frances Burney's
Brothers and Sisters—Her Backwardness in Childhood—Her
Mother's Death—David Garrick—The Old Lady—The Wig-maker—
Neglect of Fanny's Education—Her Taste for Scribbling—
Samuel Crisp—His Early Life—His Tragedy—Its Failure—His
Chagrin—His Life at Hampton—His Retirement from the World—
Crisp renews his Acquaintance with Burney—Becomes the
Adviser of the Family—Burney's Amiable Temper—Chesington
Hall—Its Quaint Interior—Contrast between Fanny and her
Elder Sister—Burney's Second Marriage—Change of Plans—Mrs.
Burney lectures Fanny—An _Auto da Fé_—Origin of 'Evelina'—
Burney takes his Doctor's Degree—His Essay on Comets—
Preparations for the 'History of Music'—Musical Tour in
France and Italy—House in Queen Square—German Tour—Fanny's
Occupation during his Absence—Removal to St. Martin's
Street—Newton's House—The Observatory—Fanny's Arrival at
Womanhood
CHAPTER II.
Life in St. Martin's Street—Increase of Fame and Friends— 32-59
Garrick's First Call—Confusion—The Hairdresser—'Tag-rag
and Bobtail'—The History of Histories—Imitation of Dr.
Johnson—The Great Roscius—Mr. Crisp's Gout—Correspondence
between him and Fanny—Dr. Burney's Concerts—Abyssinian
Bruce—Supper in St. Martin's Street—Italian Singers—A
Musical Evening—Visit of Count Orloff—His Stature and
Jewels—Condescension—A Matrimonial Duet—The Empress's
Miniature—Jemmy Twitcher—Present State of St. Martin's
Street—Mr. and Mrs. Thrale—Dr. Johnson—Visit of the
Thrales and Johnson—Appearance of Dr. Johnson—His
Conversation—His Contempt for Music—Meeting of Dr. Johnson
and Mr. Greville—Mrs. Thrale Defiant—Signor Piozzi
CHAPTER III.
'Evelina'—Date of its Composition—Negotiations with 60-99
Publishers—Dr. Burney's Consent—Publication—Illness of the
Author—Visit to Chesington—Her Father reads the Book—Mrs.
Thrale and Mrs. Cholmondeley—Exciting News—Fanny's
Success—Nancy Dawson—The Secret told to Mr. Crisp—
Characters in 'Evelina'—Dinner at Streatham—Dr. Johnson—
David Garrick—The Unclubbable Man—Curiosity as to
Authorship of 'Evelina'—The Bookseller in the Dark—Visits
to the Thrales—Table Talk—Mr. Smith—Goldsmith—Johnson and
the Scotch—Civil for Four—Sir Joshua Reynolds—Mrs.
Montagu—Boswell—The Branghtons—Mrs. Cholmondeley—Talk with
Sir Joshua—Is it True?—Mrs. Cholmondeley's Whimsical
Manner—Visit to her House—Mr. Cumberland—A Hint for a
Comedy—A Charmed Circle—Sheridan—Not a Fair Question—
Pressed to Write for the Stage—Flattered by Compliments
CHAPTER IV.
Return to Streatham—Murphy the Dramatist—A Proposed Comedy— 100-131
'The Witlings'—Adverse Judgment of Mr. Crisp and Dr.
Burney—Fanny to Mr. Crisp—Dr. Johnson on Miss Burney—A
Visit to Brighton—Cumberland—An Eccentric Character—Sir
Joshua's Prices—Tragedies—Actors and Singers—Regrets for
the Comedy—Crisp's Reply—The Lawrence Family at Devizes—
Lady Miller's Vase—The Gordon Riots—Precipitate Retreat—
Grub Street—Sudden Death of Mr. Thrale—Idleness and Work—A
Sister of the Craft—The Mausoleum of Julia—Progress of
'Cecilia' through the Press—Crisp's Judgment on 'Cecilia'—
Johnson and 'Cecilia'—Publication of 'Cecilia'—Burke—His
Letter to Miss Burney—Assembly at Miss Monckton's—New
Acquaintances—Soame Jenyns—Illness and Death of Crisp—Mrs.
Thrale's Struggles—Ill-health of Johnson—Mr. Burney
Organist of Chelsea Hospital—Mrs. Thrale marries Piozzi—
Last Interview with Johnson—His Death
CHAPTER V.
Mrs. Delany—Her Childhood—Her First Marriage—Swift—Dr. 132-166
Delany—The Dowager Duchess of Portland—Mrs. Delany a
Favourite at Court—Her Flower-Work—Miss Burney's First
Visit to Mrs. Delany—Meets the Duchess of Portland—Mrs.
Sleepe—Crisp—Growth of Friendship with Mrs. Delany—Society
at her House—Mrs. Delany's Reminiscences—The Lockes of
Norbury Park—Mr. Smelt—Dr. Burney has an Audience of the
King and Queen—The King's Bounty to Mrs. Delany—Miss
Burney Visits Windsor—Meets the King and Queen—'Evelina'—
Invention Exhausted—The King's Opinion of Voltaire,
Rousseau, and Shakespeare—The Queen and Bookstalls—
Expectation—Journey to Windsor—The Terrace—Dr. Burney's
Disappointment—Proposal of the Queen to Miss Burney—Doubts
and Fears—An Interview—The Decision—Mistaken Criticism—
Burke's Opinion—A Misconception—Horace Walpole's Regret—
Miss Burney's Journals of her Life at Court—Sketches of
Character—The King and Queen—Mrs. Schwellenberg—The
Queen's Lodge—Miss Burney's Apartments—A Day's Duties—
Royal Snuff—Fictitious Names in the Diary—The Princesses—A
Royal Birthday—A Walk on the Terrace—The Infant Princess
Amelia
CHAPTER VI.
Royal Visit to Nuneham—A Present from the Queen—Official 167-188
Exhortations—Embarrassments at Nuneham—A Laborious Sunday—
Hairdressing—The Court visits Oxford—Journey thither—
Reception by the University—Address and Reply—Kissing
Hands—Christchurch—Fatigues of the Suite—Refreshment under
Difficulties—A Surprise—The Routine of Court Life—The
Equerries—Draughts in the Palace—Early Prayers—
Barley-water—The London Season—Mrs. Siddons—Mrs.
Schwellenberg's Apartments—Her Tame Frogs—Her Behaviour to
Miss Burney—Cruel Treatment—A Change for the Better—
Newspaper Reports—Conversation with the Queen—Miss Burney
as Reader—Her Attainments, Tastes, and Power
CHAPTER VII.
The Trial of Warren Hastings—Westminster Hall—Description of 189-200
it on the Opening Day of the Trial—Edmund Burke—The other
Managers—Procession of the Peers—Entrance of the
Defendant—The Arraignment—Speech of Lord Chancellor
Thurlow—Reply of Warren Hastings—Opening of the Trial—Mr.
Windham—His Admiration of Dr. Johnson—His Reflections on
the Spectacle—Bearing of the Lord Chancellor—Windham on
Hastings—William Pitt—Major Scott—Conversation with
Windham—Partisanship—Close of the First Day's Proceedings—
Conference on it with the Queen—Another Day at the Trial—
Burke's Great Speech—Resemblance between Hastings and
Windham—Fox's Eloquence—Death of Mrs. Delany
CHAPTER VIII.
The King's Health—Royal Visit to Cheltenham—Excursions— 201-229
Robert Raikes—Colonel Digby—The Duke of York—The Court
attends the Musical Festival at Worcester—Return to
Windsor—M. de Lalande, the Astronomer—His Compliments—His
Volubility—Illness of the King—The King grows worse—'The
Queen is my Physician'—Alarm and Agitation—Grief of the
Queen—The King Insane—Arrival of the Prince of Wales—
Paroxysm of the King at Dinner—The Queen Ill—The
Physicians—The Royal Pair separated—The Prince takes the
Government of the Palace—Prayers for the King's Recovery—
The King and his Equerries—Sir Lucas Pepys—A Privy
Council—Preparations for leaving Windsor—Departure for
Kew—Mournful Spectacle—Mrs. Schwellenberg arrives
CHAPTER IX.
State of Kew Palace—Dr. Willis and his Son called in— 230-250
Progress under the New Doctors—Party Spirit—The Regency
Question—Attacks on the Queen—Fluctuations in the King's
State—Violence of Burke—Extraordinary Scene between the
King and Miss Burney in Kew Gardens—Marked Improvement of
the King—The Regency Bill postponed—The King informs Miss
Burney of his Recovery—The Restoration—Demonstrations of
Joy—Return to Windsor—Old Routine resumed—Reaction
CHAPTER X.
Royal Visit to Weymouth—Lyndhurst—Village Loyalty—Arrival at 251-277
Weymouth—Bathing to Music—Mrs. Gwynn—Mrs. Siddons—The
Royal Party at the Rooms—First Sight of Mr. Pitt—The
Marquis of Salisbury—Royal Tour—Visit to Longleat—Mrs.
Delany—Bishop Ken—Tottenham Park—Return to Windsor—
Progress of the French Revolution—Colonel Digby's
Marriage—Miss Burney's Situation—A Senator—Tax on
Bachelors—Reading to the Queen—Miss Burney's Melancholy—
Proposal for her Retirement—Her Tedious Solitude—Her
Literary Inactivity—Her Declining Health—A Friendly Cabal—
Windham and the Literary Club—James Boswell—Miss Burney's
Memorial to the Queen—Leave of Absence proposed—The Queen
and Mrs. Schwellenberg—Serious Illness of Miss Burney—
Discussions on her Retirement—A Day at the Hastings Trial—
The Defence—A Lively Scene—The Duke of Clarence—Parting
with the Royal Family—Miss Burney receives a Pension—Her
Final Retirement
CHAPTER XI.
Chelsea Hospital—Tour to Devonshire—Visit to Bath— 278-292
Reminiscences—The Duchess of Devonshire—Return Home—
Literary Pursuits resumed—Attempts at Tragedy—Social
Engagements—Death of Sir Joshua Reynolds—A Public
Breakfast at Mrs. Montagu's—Mrs. Hastings—Mr. Boswell—
Visit to Mrs. Crewe—The Burke Family—Meeting with Edmund
Burke—Burke and the French Revolution—Charles Fox—Lord
Loughborough—Mr. Erskine—His Egotism—The French Refugees
in England—Bury St. Edmunds—Madame de Genlis—The Duke de
Liancourt—The Settlement at Mickleham—Count de Narbonne—
The Chevalier d'Arblay—Visit of Miss Burney to Norfolk—
Death of Mr. Francis—Return to London
CHAPTER XII.
Miss Burney at Norbury Park—Execution of the French King— 293-314
Madame de Staël and Talleyrand at Mickleham—Miss Burney's
Impressions of M. d'Arblay—Proposed Marriage—Visit to
Chesington—The Marriage takes place—A Happy Match—The
General as Gardener—Madame d'Arblay resumes her Pen—Birth
of a Son—'Edwy and Elgiva'—Acquittal of Warren Hastings—
Publishing Plans—The Subscription List—Publication of
'Camilla'—Visit of the Author to Windsor—Interview with
the King and Queen—A Compliment from their Majesties—The
Royal Family on the Terrace—Princess Elizabeth—Great Sale
of 'Camilla'—Criticisms on the Work—Declension of Madame
d'Arblay's Style—Camilla Cottage—Wedded Happiness—Madame
d'Arblay's Comedy of 'Love and Fashion' withdrawn—Death of
Mrs. Phillips—Straitened Circumstances—The d'Arblays go to
France—Popularity of Bonaparte—Reception at the Tuileries
and Review—War between England and France—Disappointments—
Life at Passy—Difficulty of Correspondence—Madame
d'Arblay's Desire to return to England—Sails from Dunkirk
CHAPTER XIII.
Madame d'Arblay's Plans for her Son—Landing in England— 315-331
Arrival at Chelsea—Saddening Change in Dr. Burney—
Alexander d'Arblay at Cambridge—Publication of the
'Wanderer'—Death of Dr. Burney—Madame d'Arblay presented
to Louis XVIII.—M. d'Arblay appointed to the Corps de
Gardes du Roi—Arrives in England and carries Madame back
to France—Madame d'Arblay presented to the Duchesse
d'Angoulême—The Hundred Days—Panic at Brussels—M. d'Arblay
invalided—Settles in England—His Death—Remaining Days of
Madame d'Arblay—Visit from Sir Walter Scott—The Memoirs of
Dr. Burney—Tributes to their value—Death of Alexander
d'Arblay—Death of Madame d'Arblay—Conclusion
Fanny Burney and her Friends.
-------
CHAPTER I.
Birth—Parentage—The Macburneys—Early Life of Dr. Burney—Fulk Greville—
Esther Sleepe—Lynn—Poland Street—Frances Burney's Brothers and
Sisters—Her Backwardness in Childhood—Her Mother's Death—David
Garrick—The Old Lady—The Wig-maker—Neglect of Fanny's Education—Her
Taste for Scribbling—Samuel Crisp—His Early Life—His Tragedy—Its
Failure—His Chagrin—His Life at Hampton—His Retirement from the World—
Crisp renews his Acquaintance with Burney—Becomes the Adviser of the
Family—Burney's Amiable Temper—Chesington Hall—Its Quaint Interior—
Contrast between Fanny and her Elder Sister—Burney's Second Marriage—
Change of Plans—Mrs. Burney lectures Fanny—An _Auto da Fé_—Origin of
'Evelina'—Burney takes his Doctor's Degree—His Essay on Comets—
Preparations for the 'History of Music'—Musical Tour in France and
Italy—House in Queen Square—German Tour—Fanny's Occupation during his
Absence—Removal to St. Martin's Street—Newton's House—The Observatory—
Fanny's Arrival at Womanhood.
Frances Burney was born at King's Lynn on the 13th of June, 1752. She
was the second daughter, and third child, of Dr. Charles Burney, author
of the well-known 'History of Music,' by Esther Sleepe, his first wife.
It has been stated,[1] we know not on what authority, that Dr. Burney
was a descendant in the fifth degree of James Macburney, a native of
Scotland, who attended King James I. when he left that country to take
possession of the English throne. The doctor himself was certainly
unacquainted with this fact, if fact it be. His grandfather and father
were each named James Macburney, but they were both born at the village
of Great Hanwood, in Shropshire, where the former inherited a
considerable estate; there was no trace in their connections of Celtic
extraction; and Charles has recorded that he could never find at what
period any of his ancestors lived in Scotland or Ireland. Doubtless it
was the adventures of the two historical James Macburneys which led
Macaulay to conclude that the family was of Irish origin. James the
younger offended his father by eloping with an actress from the
Goodman's Fields Theater. 'The old gentleman could devise no more
judicious mode of wreaking vengeance on his undutiful boy than by
marrying the cook.' He married some sort of domestic, at any rate, who
brought him a son, named Joseph, to whom he left all his property.
Joseph, however, soon ran through his fortune, and was reduced to earn
his bread as a dancing-master in Norfolk. His elder brother James
survived the actress, and though a poor widower with a swarm of
children, gained the hand of Miss Ann Cooper, an heiress and beauty, who
had refused the addresses of the celebrated Wycherley. After his second
marriage, James followed the profession of a portrait-painter, first at
Shrewsbury, and later at Chester. The number of his children rose to
twenty-two; the youngest being Charles, afterwards Dr. Burney, and a
twin sister, Susannah, who were born and baptized at Shrewsbury on the
12th of April, 1726; at which date their father still retained the name
of Macburney. When and why the Mac was dropped we are not informed, but
by the time Charles attained to manhood, the family in all its branches—
uncles and cousins, as well as brothers and sisters—had concurred in
adopting the more compact form of Burney.
The musical talents of Charles Burney showed themselves at an early age.
In his eighteenth year, the proficiency he had acquired under his eldest
half-brother, James Burney, organist of St. Mary's, Shrewsbury,
recommended him to the notice of Dr. Arne, the composer of 'Rule,
Britannia,' who offered to take him as a pupil. In 1744, accordingly,
Charles was articled to the most famous English musician of that day,
and went to live in London. At the house of the no less famous Mrs.
Cibber,[2] who was sister of Dr. Arne, he had opportunities of mixing
with most of the persons then distinguished by their writings or their
performances in connection with the orchestra and the stage. At the end
of his third year with Arne, Burney acquired a still more useful patron.
Among the leaders of ton in the middle of last century was Fulk
Greville, a descendant of the favorite of Queen Elizabeth and friend of
Sir Philip Sidney. To a passion for field sports, horse-racing, and
gaming, this fine gentleman united an equally strong taste for more
refined pleasures, and his ample possessions enabled him to gratify
every inclination to the utmost. Greville met Burney at the shop of
Kirkman, the harpsichord-maker, and was so captivated with his playing
and lively conversation, that he paid Arne £300 to cancel the young
man's articles, and took him to live with himself as a sort of musical
companion. The high-bred society to which he was now introduced prepared
Burney to take rank in later years as the most fashionable professor of
music, and one of the most polished wits of his time. In Greville's town
circle, and at his country seat, Wilbury House, near Andover, his
dependent constantly encountered peers, statesmen, diplomatists,
macaronis, to whose various humours this son of a provincial
portrait-painter seems to have adapted himself as readily as if he had
been to the manner born. So firm a hold did he gain on his protector,
that neither the marriage of the latter, nor his own, appears in any
degree to have weakened his favour. When Greville chose to make a stolen
match with Miss Frances Macartney,[3] or, as the lady's father expressed
it, 'to take a wife out of the window whom he might just as well have
taken out of the door,' Burney was employed to give the bride away. When
Burney himself became a benedict, Mr. and Mrs. Greville cordially
approved both the act and his choice, and Mrs. Greville subsequently
stood as godmother to Frances Burney.
It was in 1749 that Charles Burney took to wife the lady before
mentioned, who, on her mother's side, was of French origin, and
grandchild of a Huguenot refugee named Dubois. Esther Sleepe herself was
bred in the City of London, and her future husband first saw her at the
house of his elder brother, Richard Burney, in Hatton Garden. To his
fashionable friends the marriage must have seemed an imprudent one, for
Miss Sleepe had no fortune to compensate for her obscure parentage. From
the 'Memoirs of Dr. Burney,'[4] we learn that her father was a man of
ill conduct; but Fanny everywhere speaks with enthusiasm of her mother's
mother. Somewhat strangely, this lady herself adhered to the Roman
Catholic creed, though she was the child of a man exiled by the
revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and though she suffered her own
daughter Esther to be brought up in the Anglican Communion. In view of
the union which Frances Burney afterwards contracted, it is as well to
bear in mind that one of her parents was partly of French extraction. In
consequence of his wife's connections, Charles Burney on his marriage
hired a house in the City. He was presently elected organist of St.
Dionis Backchurch, produced several pieces of music, and laid himself
out to obtain pupils. These flocked to him from all sides. The Grevilles
had gone abroad shortly after he left them, but he could still count on
their influence, and that of the friends they had procured him, while he
found new supporters daily among the merchants and bankers east of
Temple Bar. His wife bore him a first-born son, who was baptized James,
according to the immemorial usage of the Burney race, and then a
daughter, who received her mother's name of Esther. But when all things
looked fair and promising, the sky suddenly became overcast. The young
father's health broke down: a violent attack of fever was succeeded by a
train of symptoms threatening consumption; and, as a last resource, he
was ordered by his medical adviser, the poet-physician Armstrong,[5] to
throw up his employments in London and go to live in the country.
In this emergency, Burney was offered and accepted the place of organist
at Lynn, whither he removed in 1751, and where he spent the nine
following years. His stipend was fixed at £100 a year, a handsome sum
for those days, and he largely added to it by giving music lessons in
the town, and in many of the great houses of Norfolk. The qualities
which had stood him in good stead in London proved equally acceptable to
the country gentlemen of East Anglia. 'He scarcely ever entered one of
their houses upon terms of business without leaving it on terms of
intimacy.' His journeys to Houghton, Holkham, Kimberley, Rainham and
Felbrig were performed on the back of his mare Peggy, who leisurely
padded along the sandy cross-roads, while the rider studied a volume of
Italian poetry with the aid of a dictionary which he carried in his
pocket. As Burney's income grew, his family also increased. After his
third child, Frances, came another daughter, Susanna; next a second son,
who was called Charles, and then a fourth daughter, Charlotte. The keen
breezes from the Wash helped to brace his spare person, and though
constant riding about the country in winter was not desirable exercise,
Burney gradually reconciled himself to his provincial lot, which he
enlivened by laying plans for his 'History of Music,' corresponding with
the Grevilles and other old friends, and commencing an acquaintance by
letter with Dr. Johnson. In 1759, however, he gained some general
reputation by his musical setting of an ode for St. Cecilia's Day, which
was performed with much applause at Ranelagh Gardens; and, stimulated by
the exhortations which reached him from various quarters, he prepared to
resume his career in the capital. Foremost in urging the step was Samuel
Crisp, whom he had met and taken for his mentor at Wilbury House, and of
whom we shall have more to say presently. To settle for life among the
foggy aldermen of Lynn, wrote Crisp, would be to plant his youth,
genius, hopes and fortune against a north wall. Burney took the warning,
and in 1760, having sufficiently recruited his constitution, he returned
to London with his wife and family.
He established himself in Poland Street, which, from having been in high
fashion, was then lapsing by degrees to the professional and the less
wealthy mercantile classes, though it still boasted among its
inhabitants the Duke of Chandos, besides several lesser personages whose
names were written in the peerage. This was the very situation for an
ambitious music-master of slender means but good connections. In a very
short time, we are told, Burney 'had hardly an hour that was not
appropriated to some fair disciple.' He began his round of lessons as
early as seven o'clock in the morning, and sometimes did not finish it
till eleven at night. He often dined in a hackney coach on the contents
of a sandwich-box and a flask of sherry and water, which he carried in
his pocket. The care of his six little ones of necessity devolved wholly
on their mother, who was well worthy of the charge. In talents and
accomplishments Mrs. Burney appears to have been at least the equal of
her husband. While she lived, a certain touch of Huguenot decision in
her added strength to his less strenuous nature; and her French blood
undoubtedly contributed its full share to the quick and lively parts
that in different degrees distinguished their children. These, as they
grew out of infancy, composed a group which, on every view that we get
of it, presents an extremely pleasant picture. In most cases, their
minds blossomed at an early period. The eldest daughter, Esther,
inherited her father's musical genius; when only eight years of age she
performed with surprising skill on the harpsichord. James, the eldest
son, appears to have been a lad of spirit and vivacity. Beginning as 'a
nominal midshipman' at the age of ten, he chose the navy for his
profession, sailed twice round the world with Captain Cook, rose to the
rank of rear-admiral, and lived to have his 'flashes of wild wit'
celebrated by Charles Lamb in one of the essays of 'Elia.' Susanna, the
favorite and special friend of our Fanny, has left letters worthy of
being printed on the same page with those of her famous sister, and her
power of writing showed itself sooner than did Fanny's. Finally,
Charles,[6] the second son, though for some reason he quitted Cambridge
without taking a degree, made his mark in Greek criticism before
completing his twenty-fifth year; in that department of study, so speedy
a harvest affords sufficient proof of a forward spring. The fame of the
younger Dr. Charles Burney is now somewhat faded: in his prime, he was
classed with Porson and Parr as one of the three chief representatives
of English scholarship; and on his death his library was purchased by
the nation and placed in the British Museum.
The one marked exception to the rule of early development in the Burney
family was noted in the case of the daughter who was destined to be its
principal ornament. We are told that the most remarkable features of
Frances Burney's childhood were her extreme shyness and her backwardness
at learning. At eight years of age, she did not even know her letters;
and her elder brother, who had a sailor's love of practical jokes, used
to pretend to teach her to read, and give her the book upside down,
which, he said, she never found out. An officious acquaintance of her
mother suggested that the application of the little dunce might be
quickened by the rod, but the wiser parent replied that 'she had no fear
about Fanny.' Mrs. Burney, it is clear, favoured no forcing methods in
education. She was laid aside by illness shortly after the family's
return to London, and, so long as her health lasted, seems to have given
regular teaching to the eldest of her daughters only, whose taste for
reading she very early began to form. "I perfectly recollect," wrote
Fanny to Esther many years later, "child as I was, and never of the
party, this part of your education. At that very juvenile period, the
difference even of months makes a marked distinction in bestowing and
receiving instruction. I, also, was so peculiarly backward that even our
Susan stood before me; she could read when I knew not my letters. But,
though so sluggish to learn, I was always observant. Do you remember Mr.
Seaton denominating me at fifteen, the _silent, observant Miss Fanny_?
Well I recollect your reading with our dear mother all Pope's works and
Pitt's 'Æneid.' I recollect, also, your spouting passages from Pope,
that I learned from hearing you recite them, before—many years before—I
read them myself."
Mrs. Burney died at the end of September, 1761. Towards the close of her
illness, Fanny and Susan, with their brother Charles, had been sent to
board with a Mrs. Sheeles, who kept a school in Queen Square, that they
might be out of the way; and this experienced judge of children was
greatly struck by the intensity of Fanny's grief at a loss which girls
of nine are apt to realize very imperfectly.
The truth seems to be that Fanny's backwardness and apparent dulness
were simply due to the numbing influence of nervousness and extreme
diffidence. Her father, the less indulgent to shyness in others because
he had experienced it in himself, for a long time did her very imperfect
justice. Looking back in later years, he could remember that her talent
for observing and representing points of character, her lively
invention, even her turn for composition, had shown themselves before
she had learnt to spell her way through the pages of a fairy tale. A
magician more potent than any books helped to call forth the germs of
her latent powers. Among the friends most intimate in Poland Street
during the months following Mrs. Burney's death were David Garrick and
his engaging wife, La Violetta. While exerting themselves to console the
widower, this brilliant and kindly couple did not neglect his motherless
family. 'Garrick, who was passionately fond of children, never withheld
his visits on account of the absence of the master of the house.' If Mr.
Burney was not at home, the great actor, keenly alive to his own gift of
bestowing pleasure, would devote himself to entertaining the little
ones. The rapture with which his entrance was greeted by that small
audience charmed him as much as the familiar applause of Drury Lane. The
prince of comedians and mimics was content to lavish all the resources
of his art on a handful of girls and boys. When he left them, they spent
the rest of the day in recalling the sallies of his humour, and the
irresistible gestures which had set them off. So Fanny tells us, the
least noticed, probably, yet the most attentive and observant member of
the whole group. On many a happy night, the elder ones, in charge of
some suitable guardian, were permitted to occupy Mrs. Garrick's private
box at the theatre. There they beheld 'the incomparable Roscius' take
the stage, and followed him with eyes of such eager admiration, that it
seemed—so their amused father told his friend—
'They did, as was their duty,
Worship the shadow of his shoe-tie!'
Burney relates of Fanny that 'she used, after having seen a play in Mrs.
Garrick's box, to take the actors off, and _compose_ speeches for their
characters, for she could not read them.' But, he continues, in company
or before strangers, she was silent, backward, and timid, even to
sheepishness; and, from her shyness, had such profound gravity and
composure of features, that those of Dr. Burney's friends who went often
to his home, and entered into the different humours of the children,
never called Fanny by any other name, from the time she had reached her
eleventh year, than 'the old lady.'
Yet the shyest children will now and then forget their shyness. This
seems to be the moral of a story which the worthy doctor goes on to tell
in his rather prolix and pompous style. "There lived next door to me, at
that time, in Poland Street, and in a private house, a capital
hair-merchant, who furnished perukes to the judges and gentlemen of the
law. The hair-merchant's female children and mine used to play together
in the little garden behind the house; and, unfortunately, one day, the
door of the wig-magazine being left open, they each of them put on one
of those dignified ornaments of the head, and danced and jumped about in
a thousand antics, laughing till they screamed at their own ridiculous
figures. Unfortunately, in their vagaries, one of the flaxen wigs, said
by the proprietor to be worth upwards of ten guineas—in those days an
enormous price—fell into a tub of water, placed for shrubs in the little
garden, and lost all its gorgon buckle,[7] and was declared by the owner
to be totally spoilt. He was extremely angry, and chid very severely his
own children, when my little daughter, 'the old lady,' then ten years of
age, advancing to him, as I was informed, with great gravity and
composure, sedately said, 'What signifies talking so much about an
accident? The wig is wet, to be sure; and the wig was a good wig, to be
sure: but 'tis of no use to speak of it any more, because _what's done
can't be undone_.'"
Meanwhile, little was done on any regular plan for Fanny's education.
She had not been suffered to remain at the school in which she was
temporarily placed during her mother's last illness, nor was she sent to
any other. When, after the lapse of two or three years, Burney found
himself in a position to put two of his girls to school at Paris, he
selected the third, Susanna, rather than Fanny, to accompany the eldest
sister, proposing to send Fanny and Charlotte together at a future time.
Two reasons were assigned for this arrangement. One was the notion that
Susanna, who inherited her father's consumptive habit, required change
of climate more than the second daughter. The other was a fear lest
Fanny's deep reverence for her Roman Catholic grandmother might incline
her to adopt the same form of faith, and thus render her perversion
easy, if, when so young, she fell within the influence of some
enterprising French chaplain. We cannot help suspecting, however, that
the true cause of Fanny being passed over on this occasion was an
impression that Susanna was a girl of brighter parts, and better fitted
to benefit by the teaching of a Paris _pension_.
From whatever motive, Fanny was left behind, nor was any instructor
provided for her at home. The widower disliked the idea of introducing a
governess into his house, though he had no time to spare even for
directing his daughter's studies. She was thus entirely self-educated,
and had no other spur to exertion than her unbounded affection for her
father, who excused himself for his neglect of her training by the
reflection that 'she had a natural simplicity and probity about her
which wanted no teaching.' In her eleventh year she had learned to read,
and began to scribble little poems and works of invention, though in a
character that was illegible to everyone but herself. 'Her love of
reading,' we are told, 'did not display itself till two or three years
later.' Her father had a good library, over which she was allowed to
range at will; and in course of time she became acquainted with a fair
portion of its lighter contents. The solitary child kept a careful
account of the authors she studied, making extracts from them, and
adding remarks which, we are assured, showed that her mind was riper
than her knowledge. Yet she never developed any strong or decided taste
for literature. She never became even a devourer of books. Indeed, it
may be doubted whether she did not always derive more pleasure from her
own compositions than from those of the greatest writers. Plying her pen
without an effort, the leisure which most intellectual persons give to
reading, Fanny devoted in great part to producing manuscripts of her
own. Childish epics, dramas, and romances, were not the only ventures of
her youth: she began keeping a diary at the age of fifteen, and, in
addition to her published novels and sundry plays which have perished,
journals, memoirs, and letters, of which a small proportion only have
seen the light, occupied most of the vacant hours in her active
womanhood.
During this period of self-education, the person from whom Fanny
received most notice and attention appears to have been her father's old
friend, Samuel Crisp. This gentleman had gone abroad while the Burneys
were in Norfolk, and had taken up his abode at Rome, where he passed
several years, improving his taste in music, painting, and sculpture,
and forgetting for a while the young English professor who had
interested him under Greville's roof. Having at length returned to
England, he, some time after Mrs. Burney's death, met Burney by accident
at the house of a common acquaintance. The casual encounter immediately
revived the old intimacy. Crisp at once found his way to the house in
Poland Street, and, like Garrick, was attracted by the group of children
there. As the two eldest of these and the lively Susanna were soon
afterwards removed to a distance, the chief share in his regard
naturally fell to the lot of Fanny. Hence, while all the children came
to look upon him with a sort of filial feeling, he was in a special
manner appropriated by Fanny as 'her dearest daddy.' And there were
points in Crisp's temperament which harmonized well with the girl's shy
yet aspiring character. Both, in their turn, set their hearts on the
attainment of literary renown; both had the same tendency to shrink into
themselves. Success changed Fanny from a silent domestic drudge into a
social celebrity; failure helped to change Crisp from a shining man of
fashion into a moody recluse.
The story of this strange man has been sketched by Macaulay, but it has
so close a bearing on our heroine's life, that we cannot avoid shortly
retracing it here. A handsome person, dignified manners, excellent
talents, and an accomplished taste procured for Crisp, in his prime,
acceptance and favour, not only with Fulk Greville and his set, but also
with a large number of other persons distinguished in the great world.
Thus, he was admitted to the acquaintance of the highly descended and
wealthy Margaret Cavendish Harley, then Duchess Dowager of Portland,
whom we mention here because through her Crisp became known to Mrs.
Delany, by whom Fanny was afterwards introduced to the Royal Family.
Another of his friends was Mrs. Montagu, who then, as he used to say,
was 'peering at fame,' and gradually rising to the rank of a lady
patroness of letters. And among the most intimate of his associates was
the Earl of Coventry, at the time when that 'grave young lord,' as
Walpole calls him, after long dangling, married the most beautiful of
the beautiful Gunnings. Now, about the date when our Fanny first saw the
light, it was buzzed abroad in the coterie of Crisp's admirers that
their hero had finished a tragedy on the story of Virginia. A lively
expectation was at once awakened. But Garrick, though a personal friend
of the author, hesitated and delayed to gratify the public with the rich
feast which was believed to be in store for it. The utmost efforts were
employed to overcome his reluctance. The great Mr. Pitt was prevailed on
to read the play, and to pronounce in its favour. Lord Coventry exerted
all his influence with the coy manager. Yet not until Lady Coventry
herself had joined her solicitations to those of her husband was
'Virginia' put in rehearsal at Drury Lane. The piece was produced in
February, 1754, and ran several nights, buoyed up by the acting and
popularity of Garrick, who contributed a remarkably good epilogue.[8]
But no patronage or support could keep alive a drama which, in truth,
had neither poetical merit nor the qualities of a good acting play to
recommend it. 'Virginia' was very soon withdrawn, and, as usual, the
writer, while cruelly mortified by his failure, attributed it to every
cause but the right one. Lord Coventry advised alterations, which Crisp
hastened to execute, but Garrick, though civil, was determined that so
ineffective a muse should not again cumber his stage. His firmness, of
course, cost him the friendship of the ungrateful Crisp, who, conscious
of considerable powers, and unable to perceive that he had mistaken
their proper application, inveighed with equal bitterness against
manager, performers, and the public, and in sore dudgeon betook himself
across the sea to Italy. Macaulay, indeed, will have it that his
disappointment ruined his temper and spirits, and turned him into 'a
cynic, and a hater of mankind.' But in this, as in too many of the
essayist's trenchant statements, something of accuracy is sacrificed for
the sake of effect. Crisp appears to have enjoyed himself not a little
in Italy, and on his return, though he did not again settle in London,
he fixed his first abode as near to it as the courtly village of
Hampton, where he furnished a small house, filling it with pictures,
statuary, and musical instruments, as became a man of taste. Far from
shunning society in this luxurious retreat, he entertained so many
guests there that his hospitality in a short time made a serious inroad
on his small fortune. Chagrin at his imprudence brought on a severe
attack of gout; and then it was that, broken alike in health and
finances, he resolved on secluding himself from the world. Having sold
his villa and its contents, he removed a few miles off to a solitary
mansion belonging to an old friend, Christopher Hamilton, who, like
himself, had lost the battle of life, and desired to be considered as
dead to mankind.
Chesington Hall, which thenceforth became the joint residence of this
pair of hermits, stood on an eminence rising from a wide and nearly
desolate common, about midway between the towns of Epsom and Kingston;
the neglected buildings were crumbling to pieces from age, having been
begun in the same year in which Wolsey laid the first stone of Hampton
Court; and the homestead was surrounded by fields, that for a long
period had been so ploughed up as to leave no road or even regular
footpath open across them. In this hiding-place Crisp fixed his abode
for the rest of his life. So isolated was the spot that strangers could
not reach it without a guide. But the inhabitants desired to have as few
visitors as possible. Only as the spring of each year came round would
Crisp, while his strength allowed, quit his refuge for a few weeks, to
amuse himself with the picture-shows and concerts of the London season.
It seems to have been during one of these excursions that Burney met
Crisp again after their long separation. The revival of their friendship
gave the solitary man one more connecting link with the outside world.
Down to that time Crisp's only visitor in his retreat seems to have been
his sister, Mrs. Sophia Gast, of Burford, in Oxfordshire. Now to Burney
also was entrusted the clue for a safe route across the wild common to
Chesington Hall, while from all others, including Mr. Greville, it was
still steadfastly withheld. There is no reason to suppose that the
acquaintances whom Crisp thus relinquished were more faithless than a
poor man's great friends usually are. He had been flattered with hopes
of obtaining some public appointment through their interest; but his
health had failed before the value of the promises made to him could be
fairly tested. When restored strength might have rendered seclusion
irksome, and employment acceptable, his pride rebelled against further
solicitation, and fixed him in the solitude where his poverty and lack
of energy alike escaped reproach. Charles Burney alone, from whom he had
nothing to expect, and who had always looked up to him, was admitted
where others were excluded.
The modern village of Chesington lies about two miles to the north-west
of the railway-station at Ewell. Some patches of heathy common still
remain. Though not so solitary a place as in the days of which we write,
Chesington has still a lonely look.[9]
Crisp, in his sanctuary, and his occasional secret journeys to London,
resumed his office of mentor to Burney, and became also the confidential
adviser of Burney's daughters. For such trust he was eminently
qualified; since, to borrow the words of Macaulay, though he was a bad
poet, he was a scholar, a thinker, and an excellent counsellor. He
surpassed his younger friend, Charles, in general knowledge and force of
mind, as much as he was surpassed by Charles in social tact and
pliability of temper. And Burney was far from resenting or grudging the
influence which Crisp acquired in his family; for Burney was a
sweet-natured as well as a sensible man. No pitiful vanity or
treacherous jealousy lay hid under his genial and gracious exterior.
Conscious, apparently, that both from too great easiness of disposition,
and from his manifold engagements, he was ill-fitted to discharge all
the duties devolving on him as sole surviving parent, he cordially
welcomed the assistance of his old and valued friend. Mrs. Thrale
afterwards complained that Dr. Burney liked to keep his hold on his
children; but the engrossing lady patroness seems to have meant only
that he objected, as well he might, to have Fanny disposed of for months
or years at a time without regard to his wishes or convenience. He was
never disturbed by unworthy alarms lest some interloping well-wisher
should steal away the hearts of his children from himself. He stooped to
no paltry manœuvres to prevent them from becoming too much attached
to this or that friend. He certainly did not interfere to check the
warmth of his daughters' regard for the rugged old cynic of Chesington,
nor put any restraint on the correspondence which grew up between Fanny
and her 'dearest daddy.' And he reaped the full reward of his
unselfishness, or, we should rather say, of his straightforward good
sense. No son or daughter was ever estranged from him by the feeling
that his jealousy had robbed them of a useful connection or appreciative
ally. Fanny's fondness for her adopted father, as might have been
expected, did not in the least diminish her love for her natural parent.
'She had always a great affection for me,' wrote Dr. Burney at the close
of his life. The latter was, indeed, the standard by which she generally
tried the claims of any other person to be considered admirable or
charming. In her twenty-sixth year she expressed her enthusiasm for her
newly-made friend, Mrs. Thrale, by saying: 'I never before saw a person
who so strongly resembles my dear father.' At forty-one, she described
her husband as being 'so very like my beloved father in disposition,
humour, and taste, that the day never passes in which I do not exclaim:
"How you remind me of my father!"'
Crisp himself, at the time when Fanny made his acquaintance, had no
pretension to gentle manners or a graceful address; but, like many other
disappointed men who assume the character of misanthropes, he possessed
at bottom a warm, and even tender, heart, and was particularly fond of
young persons. In his intimate intercourse with the Burney family, all
ceremony was discarded; towards the junior members he adopted a plain,
rough style of speech, which, being unmistakably playful, left them
always quite at home with him. Very soon the death of Crisp's companion
in retirement rendered the society of the Burneys more indispensable to
the survivor, while it placed him in a better position for receiving
these visits. The male line of the Hamiltons ended in Christopher, and
his dilapidated estate descended to a maiden sister, Mrs. Sarah
Hamilton. Rather than sell the property, this ancient lady, under
Crisp's advice, divided the capacious old Hall between herself and
Farmer Woodhatch, who rented and cultivated what remained of the lands.
To assist her in keeping up the residence she still retained, Mrs.
Hamilton called in as 'lady help' a rustic niece, named Kitty Cooke, and
Crisp became her lodger, securing to his own use 'a favourite apartment,
with a light and pleasant closet at the end of a long corridor.' In this
closet a great part of Burney's 'History of Music' was written. There
was a larger scheme, also, at this time, for turning the whole suite of
rooms into a boarding establishment, but applicants for accommodation in
so remote and obscure an abode were likely to be few in number. Mrs.
Gast, however, came thither from time to time, and Frances Burney and
her sisters were often there. We shall see, in due course, how the
animated scenes of the famous novel, 'Cecilia,' or most of them, were
elaborated within those mouldering walls. To the end of her life the
author's thoughts wandered back with delight to the quaint old place.
Her memory let nothing slip: "not a nook or corner; nor a dark passage
'leading to nothing'; nor a hanging tapestry of prim demoiselles and
grim cavaliers; nor a tall canopied bed tied up to the ceiling; nor
japan cabinets of two or three hundred drawers of different dimensions;
nor an oaken corner-cupboard, carved with heads, thrown in every
direction, save such as might let them fall on men's shoulders; nor a
window stuck in some angle close to the ceiling of a lofty slip of a
room; nor a quarter of a staircase, leading to some quaint unfrequented
apartment; nor a wooden chimney-piece, cut in diamonds, squares, and
round knobs, surmounting another of blue and white tiles, representing,
_vis-à-vis_, a dog and a cat, as symbols of married life and
harmony."[10]
The time arrived when, in accordance with their father's original
design, Frances and Charlotte Burney should have been placed at school
in Paris in succession to Esther and Susanna. Burney presently made
another journey to the French capital to bring back the pair of sisters
who had completed the term of two years assigned for their education
there, but he was not accompanied by either of his other daughters. He
was not deterred from taking them by any misgiving as to the results of
his first experiment, which, we are assured, had fully answered his
expectations, but rather by some uncertainty of means and plans,
connected, perhaps, in part with his approaching second marriage. Some
lines from the pen of Susanna have been preserved, which are said to
have been written shortly after her return, and which, if the date
ascribed to them be correct, would show that the writer, who was then
barely fourteen, was a remarkably forward girl of her age. As this short
composition sketches in contrast Susanna's two elder sisters, we give it
entire:
"Hetty seems a good deal more lively than she used to appear at Paris;
whether it is that her spirits are better, or that the great liveliness
of the inhabitants made her appear grave there by comparison, I know
not: but she was there remarkable for being _sérieuse_, and is here for
being gay and lively. She is a most sweet girl. My sister Fanny is
unlike her in almost everything, yet both are very amiable, and love
each other as sincerely as ever sisters did. The characteristics of
Hetty seem to be wit, generosity and openness of heart: Fanny's—sense,
sensibility, and bashfulness, and even a degree of prudery. Her
understanding is superior, but her diffidence gives her a bashfulness
before company with whom she is not intimate, which is a disadvantage to
her. My eldest sister shines in conversation, because, though very
modest, she is totally free from any _mauvaise honte_: were Fanny
equally so, I am persuaded she would shine no less. I am afraid that my
eldest sister is too communicative, and that my sister Fanny is too
reserved. They are both charming girls—_des filles comme il y en a
peu_."
Burney's second marriage took place not long after the return of Esther
and Susanna from Paris. His choice on this occasion was an intimate
friend of the first Mrs. Burney, whom she succeeded after an interval of
six years. This lady was the widow of Mr. Stephen Allen, a merchant of
Lynn, and by him the parent of several children. The young Allens had
been playmates of the young Burneys. If not equal in mind or person to
the adored Esther Sleepe, Mrs. Allen was a handsome and well-instructed
woman, and proved an excellent stepmother to Fanny and her sisters, as
well as an admirable wife to their father. For some reason or other, the
nature of which does not very clearly appear, it was judged desirable
that not only the engagement between the widow and widower should be
kept secret, but that their wedding should be celebrated in private.
They were married some time in the spring of 1768, at St. James's,
Piccadilly, by the curate, an old acquaintance of the bridegroom, their
intention being confided to three other friends only. Crisp, who was one
of these, had clearly no mind that Burney's new connection should put an
end to their alliance, or deprive himself of the relief which the visits
of the widower and his children had afforded to the monotony of his
retirement. The freshly married couple carried their secret and their
happiness 'to the obscure skirts of the then pathless, and nearly
uninhabited Chesington Common, where Mr. Crisp had engaged for them a
rural and fragrant retreat, at a small farm-house in a little hamlet a
mile or two from Chesington Hall.'
The secret, we are further told, as usual in matrimonial concealments,
was faithfully preserved for a time by careful vigilance, and then
escaped through accident. Betrayed by the loss of a letter, Mrs. Burney
came openly to town to be introduced to her husband's circle, and
presently took her place at the head of his household in Poland Street.
The young people on both sides accepted their new relationships with
pleasure. The long-deferred scheme of sending Fanny and her youngest
sister to Paris was now finally abandoned. Susanna undertook to instruct
Fanny in French, and Charlotte was put to school in Norfolk. For some
years the united families spent their summer holidays at Lynn, where
Mrs. Burney had a dower-house. But, whether in town or country, Frances
and Susanna were specially devoted to each other. Susan alone was
Fanny's confidante in her literary attempts.
As the latter's age increased, her passion for writing became more
confirmed. Every scrap of white paper that could be seized upon without
question or notice was at once covered with her manuscript. She was not
long in finding out that her turn was mainly for story-telling and
humorous description. The two girls laughed and cried together over the
creations of the elder's fancy, but the native timidity of the young
author, and still more, perhaps, her father's low estimate of her
capacity, made her apprehend nothing but ridicule if what she scribbled
were disclosed to others. She worked then under the rose, imposing the
strictest silence on her faithful accomplice. When in London, she plied
her pen in a closet up two pair of stairs, that was appropriated to the
younger children as a playroom. At Lynn, she would shut herself up to
write in a summer-house, which went by the name of 'The Cabin.' Yet all
her simple precautions could not long elude the suspicion of her
sharp-sighted stepmother. The second Mrs. Burney was a bustling,
sociable person, who did not approve of young ladies creeping out of
sight to study; though herself fond of books, and, as we learn, a
particular admirer of Sterne's 'Sentimental Journey,' then recently
published, she was a matron of the period, and could not tolerate the
idea of a young woman under her control venturing on the disesteemed
career of literature. The culprit, therefore, was seriously and
frequently admonished to check her scribbling propensity. Some morsels
of her compositions, falling into the hands of Mrs. Burney, appear to
have added point to the censor's remarks. Fanny was warned not to waste
time and thought over idle inventions; and she was further cautioned,
and not unreasonably, according to the prevailing notions of the day, as
to the discredit she would incur if she came before the public as a
female novelist. The future author of 'Cecilia' was only too ready to
assent to this view, and to cry _peccavi_. She bowed before her
stepmother's rebukes, and prepared herself inwardly for a great act of
sacrifice. Seizing an opportunity when her father was at Chesington, and
Mrs. Burney was in Norfolk, 'she made over to a bonfire, in a paved
play-court, her whole stock' of prose manuscripts.
The fact of the _auto da fé_ rests on the authority of the penitent
herself: her niece and biographer, Mrs. Barrett, adds that Susanna stood
by, weeping at the pathetic spectacle; but this is perhaps only a
legendary accretion to the tale. It seems certain that Fanny fell into
error, when, long years afterwards, she wrote of the incident as having
occurred on her fifteenth birthday.[11] Fanny was never very careful
about her dates, and she was unquestionably more than fifteen when her
father's second marriage took place. In spite of this, we are not
warranted in questioning Mrs. Barrett's express statement that her
aunt's famous Diary was commenced at the age of fifteen. Though of that
portion of the Diary which belongs to the years preceding the
publication of 'Evelina,' only the opening passages have been printed,
and though the style of these may seem to betoken a more advanced age
than that mentioned, the whole was before the biographer when she wrote,
and the contents must have spoken for themselves.
Frances Burney had burned her papers with the full intention of breaking
off altogether the baneful habit of authorship. Doubtless, however, she
did not consider that her resolution of total abstinence debarred her
from keeping a journal; and she was not long in discovering that,
however steadfastly she might resist the impulses of her fancy, its
wings were always pluming themselves for a flight. The latest-born of
her literary bantlings committed to the flames had been a tale setting
forth the fortunes and fate of Caroline Evelyn, who was feigned to be
the daughter of a gentleman by a low-bred wife, and, after the death of
her father, to contract a clandestine marriage with a faithless baronet,
and then to survive her husband's desertion of her just long enough to
give birth to a female child. The closing incident of this tragic and
tragically-destroyed production left a lively impression on the mind of
the writer. Her imagination dwelt on the singular situations to which
the infant, as she grew up, would be exposed by the lot that placed her
between the rival claims of her vulgar grandmother and her mother's more
refined connections, and on the social contrasts and collisions, at once
unusual and natural, which the supposed circumstances might be expected
to occasion. In this way, from the ashes of the 'History of Caroline
Evelyn' sprang Frances Burney's first published work, 'Evelina; or, A
Young Lady's Entrance into the World.' We do not know how long a time
expired from the burning of her manuscripts before Fanny relapsed into
the sin of fiction-scribbling; but the flood of her invention probably
rose the faster for being pent up. Irresistibly and almost
unconsciously, she tells us, the whole story of 'Evelina' was laid up in
her memory before a paragraph had been committed to paper. Even when her
conscience had ceased to struggle, her opportunities for jotting down
the ideas which haunted her were few and far between. She had to write
in stolen moments, for she was under the eye of her stepmother. The
demands on her time, too, became greater than they had been when
Caroline Evelyn was her heroine. Her Diary occupied a large part of her
leisure, and her hours of regular employment were presently lengthened
by the work of transcribing for her father.
Charles Burney was now rising to eminence in his profession. To be
Master of the King's Band was the highest honour then within the reach
of a musician, and Burney had been promised this appointment, though the
promise was broken in favour of a candidate supported by the Duke of
York.[12] In the summer of 1769, the Duke of Grafton was to be installed
as Chancellor of the University of Cambridge. The poet Gray wrote the
Installation Ode. Burney proposed to set it to music, and to conduct the
performance at the ceremony, intending, at the same time, to take the
degree of Doctor of Music at Cambridge. The Chancellor Elect accepted
his offer as one which the composer's rank well entitled him to make;
but it soon appeared that the ideas of the two men as to the relative
value of money and music were widely different. His Grace would consent
to allow for the expense of singers and orchestra only one-half the
amount which the conductor considered due to the occasion and his own
importance. Burney in disgust threw up his commission, and, without loss
of time, repaired to the sister University for his doctorate, which was
conferred on him in June, 1769; the exercise produced by him as his
qualification was so highly thought of that it was repeated three years
successively at choral meetings in Oxford, and was afterwards performed
at Hamburg under C. P. E. Bach.
Dr. Burney's new title did not appear on his door-plate till a facetious
friend exhorted him to brazen it. But, retiring as he was, the
constitutional diffidence which his second daughter inherited was now
giving way in him before the consciousness of ability and attainments,
and the irresistible desire to establish a lasting reputation. In the
latter part of the same year, he ventured anonymously into print with
his first literary production. Ten years earlier, the return of Halley's
Comet at the time predicted seems to have given him an interest in
astronomy, which he retained through life. There was again a comet
visible in 1769, and this drew from him an Essay on Comets, to which he
prefixed a translation from the pen of his first wife, Esther, of a
letter by Maupertuis.[13] But this pamphlet was only an experiment, and
being obviously the work of an amateur, attracted little notice. Having
once tried his 'prentice hand at authorship, he fixed his attention on
his proper subject, and devoted himself to his long-projected 'History
of Music.'
He had for many years kept a commonplace book, in which he laid up
notes, extracts, abridgments, criticisms, as the matter presented
itself. So large was the collection thus accumulated that it seemed to
his family 'as if he had merely to methodize his manuscripts, and
entrust them to a copyist, for completing his purpose.' The copyist was
at hand in his daughter Frances, who became his principal secretary and
librarian. But, as the enterprise proceeded, the views of the historian
expanded. Much information that would now be readily supplied by public
journals or correspondence was then only to be obtained by personal
investigation on the spot. Early in 1770, Dr. Burney had determined that
it would be needful for him to undertake a musical tour through France
and Italy. He started on this expedition in June of that year, and did
not return until the following January. His absence gave Fanny a
considerable increase of leisure and opportunity for indulging her own
literary dreams and occupations. Her stepmother, as well as her father,
seems to have left her at liberty, for during part of this interval, at
least, the attention of Mrs. Burney was engaged in providing a better
habitation for her husband.
The house in Poland Street had been found too small to accommodate the
combined families. In addition to the children of their former
marriages, there had been born to the parents a son, who was baptized
Richard Thomas, and a daughter to whom they gave the name of Sarah
Harriet. Mrs. Burney now found, and having found, proceeded to purchase
and furnish, a large house in the upper part of Queen Square,
Bloomsbury, which then enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the Hampstead
and Highgate Hills. The new abode had once belonged to Alderman Barber,
the friend of Dean Swift; and the Burneys pleased themselves with the
thought that there the great saturnine humourist had been wont sometimes
to set the table in a roar. The removal was effected while the Doctor
was still on the Continent. On his arrival in London, he was welcomed to
the new home by his wife and children, and by the never-failing Mr.
Crisp. We hear, however, but little of this house in Queen Square, and
even less of Fanny's doings there. Her father had scarcely time to
become acquainted with it before he was off to Chesington, where he
occupied himself for several weeks in preparing the journal of his tour
for the press. All his daughters were pressed into the service of
copying and recopying his manuscript, but the chief share of this labour
fell upon the scribbling Fanny. The book, which was called 'The Present
State of Music in France and Italy,' appeared in the season of 1771.
Thenceforth his friend Crisp's retreat became Burney's constant resort
when he had literary work in hand. A further production of his pen,
dealing with a matter of musical technique, came forth before the close
of the same year. At the beginning of July, 1772, he set out on another
tour, with the same object of collecting materials for his history, his
route being now through Germany and the Netherlands. During this second
pilgrimage, his family spent their time partly at Lynn, partly at
Chesington; and Fanny, as we are told,—apparently on the authority of
her unpublished Diaries—profiting by the opportunities which these
visits afforded, then "gradually arranged and connected the disjointed
scraps and fragments in which 'Evelina' had been originally written."
But, careful to avoid offence, "she never indulged herself with reading
or writing except in the afternoon; always scrupulously devoting her
time to needlework till after dinner."
The traveller's absence lasted five months: he reached Calais on his
return in a December so boisterous that for nine days no vessel could
cross the Channel; and Fanny relates that, when at length the passage
was effected, he was too much exhausted by sea-sickness to quit his
berth, and, falling asleep, was carried back to France to encounter
another stormy voyage, and a repetition of his sea-sickness, before he
finally landed at Dover. The fatigues and hardships of his homeward
journey brought on a severe attack of rheumatism, to which he was
subject. Fanny and her sisters nursed him, sitting by his bedside, pen
in hand, to set down the narrative of his German tour as his sufferings
allowed of his dictating it. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered,
he went down to Chesington not forgetting to carry his secretaries with
him.
During this illness, or a relapse which followed it, the house in Queen
Square had to be relinquished from difficulties respecting the title;
and Mrs. Burney purchased and fitted up another in a central situation,
which was at once more convenient for her husband's teaching
engagements, and more agreeable to him as being nearer to the opera, the
theatres, and the clubs. St. Martin's Street, Leicester Fields, to which
the family removed, is now among the most dingy, not to say the most
squalid, of London streets; even in 1773, 'its unpleasant site, its
confined air, and its shabby immediate neighbourhood,' are spoken of as
drawbacks requiring compensation on an exchange from the fair and open
view of the northern heights, crowned with Caen Woods, which had faced
the windows in Bloomsbury. But, apart from the practical advantages
before mentioned, the new home was invested with a strong attraction for
the incomers in having been once inhabited by a personage whom our
astronomical Doctor revered, and taught his children to revere, as 'the
pride of human nature.' The belief that the house in Queen Square had
occasionally been visited by Dean Swift was nothing compared with the
certain knowledge that No. 1, St. Martin's Street, had been the dwelling
of Sir Isaac Newton.[14] The topmost story was surmounted by an
'observatory,' having a leaden roof, and sides composed entirely of
small panes of glass, except such parts as were taken up by a cupboard,
fireplace and chimney. This structure being much dilapidated when Dr.
Burney entered into possession, his first act was to put what he looked
on as a special relic of his great predecessor into complete repair. The
house itself was sufficiently large for the new tenant's family, as well
as for his books, 'which now began to demand nearly equal
accommodation.' Having recovered his health, and set his affairs in
order, the Doctor next resumed his daily round of lessons, and applied
himself to remedy any injury which his professional connection had
sustained from his two prolonged absences on the Continent. His pen was
laid aside for a time, but the German Tour was published before the end
of this year, and proved very successful. About the same time, its
author was elected a fellow of the Royal Society. The first volume of
his 'History of Music'—in which work the main part of both his Tours was
incorporated—did not appear till 1776. We are now arrived at the time
when our heroine has attained majority. Her womanhood may be said to
have commenced with the removal to St. Martin's Street. In our next
chapter we shall see how the first portion of it was spent.
-----
Footnote 1:
Owen and Blakeway's 'History of Shrewsbury,' vol. ii., p. 388.
Footnote 2:
Actress and singer; married Theophilus Cibber, son of Colley Cibber.
She was a special favorite with Handel, who wrote much of his
contralto music for her. In the latter part of her career she was
associated with Garrick at Drury Lane. Born, 1714; died, 1766.
Footnote 3:
This lady wrote verses, and acquired some repute by a poem entitled 'A
Prayer for Indifference.'
Footnote 4:
'Memoirs of Dr. Burney, by his Daughter, Madame d'Arblay,' 1832.
Footnote 5:
Author of a didactic poem, 'The Art of Preserving Health.'
Footnote 6:
Born at Lynn, December 4, 1756; LL.D. Aberdeen, 1792; vicar of
Deptford, prebendary of Lincoln, chaplain to the King; died 1817.
Footnote 7:
The writer seems to have had in view the lines of Pope:
'That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.'
By the buckle of a wig was meant its stiff curl when in trim
condition.
Footnote 8:
Walpole to Bentley, March 6, 1754.
Footnote 9:
Thorne's 'Environs of London.' The name is now written Chessington,
but we retain the spelling which was always used by Fanny Burney and
her friends.
Footnote 10:
'Memoirs of Dr. Burney,' vol. ii., p. 185.
Footnote 11:
Preface to the 'Wanderer.'
Footnote 12:
Edward, brother of King George III.
Footnote 13:
The title-page runs: 'An Essay towards the history of the principal
Comets that have appeared since 1742; with remarks and reflections
upon the present Comet; to which is prefixed a Letter,' etc. London,
1769. It is a curious instance of Madame d'Arblay's inaccuracy in the
matter of dates, that she writes in detail of this little tract, the
title of which she misquotes, as having been produced when 'the comet
of the immortal Halley' was being awaited. ('Memoirs of Dr. Burney,'
vol. i., pp. 214-217.) But it was in 1759, not 1769, that Halley's
Comet returned. For notices of the comet of 1769, see the _Gentleman's
Magazine_ of that year.
Footnote 14:
The house is now No. 35. It was occupied by Newton from the time when
he became President of the Royal Society down to his death in 1727. He
did not actually die there, as has been sometimes stated, but at
Orbell's Buildings, Kensington, whither he used to resort for change
of air. See _Notes and Queries_, Third Series, i. 29. For the number
of the house during Dr. Burney's occupation, see a letter from him to
Fanny in her Diary, New Edition, vol. i., 297.
-----
CHAPTER II.
Life in St. Martin's Street—Increase of Fame and Friends—Garrick's First
Call—Confusion—The Hairdresser—'Tag-rag and Bobtail'—The History of
Histories—Imitation of Dr. Johnson—The Great Roscius—Mr. Crisp's Gout—
Correspondence between him and Fanny—Dr. Burney's Concerts—Abyssinian
Bruce—Supper in St. Martin's Street—Italian Singers—A Musical Evening—
Visit of Count Orloff—His Stature and Jewels—Condescension—A
Matrimonial Duet—The Empress's Miniature—Jemmy Twitcher—Present State
of St. Martin's Street—Mr. and Mrs. Thrale—Dr. Johnson—Visit of the
Thrales and Johnson—Appearance of Dr. Johnson—His Conversation—His
Contempt for Music—Meeting of Dr. Johnson and Mr. Greville—Mrs. Thrale
Defiant—Signor Piozzi.
Frances Burney's Memoirs of her father, her letters to Daddy Crisp, and
her Diary, together, give us a pretty distinct idea of her life in the
little street south of Leicester Square. From the time when Dr. Burney
became established in that quarter, the circle of his friends and his
reputation steadily widened. In no long time he made acquaintance with
his neighbours, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Miss Reynolds, and their nieces,
the Misses Palmer; with another neighbour, the sculptor Nollekens; with
the painter Barry, Harris of Salisbury,[15] Mrs. Ord, Sir Joseph Banks,
and Abyssinian Bruce, then just returned from his travels. All these and
others were, from time to time, to be found in the Doctor's modest
drawing-room, together with many old friends, such as the Stranges,
Garrick, Colman, Mason, the Hooles, father and son, Twining, and
Baretti.
We have, in the 'Memoirs,' an account of David Garrick's first call at
the house in St. Martin's Street, which, though written in the author's
later style, was no doubt derived from contemporary notes or journals:—
It was early morning, and the doorsteps were being washed by a new
housemaid, who, not recognising the actor, demurred to his entering
unannounced. He brushed past her, ran upstairs, and burst into the
Doctor's study. Here he found the master of the house under the hands of
his hairdresser; while Susanna was reading a newspaper to him, Charlotte
making his tea, and Fanny arranging his books. There was a litter of
papers everywhere. Burney would have cleared a chair, but the visitor
plumped down into one that was well cushioned with pamphlets, crying:
'Ay, do now, Doctor, be in a little confusion! Whisk your matters all
out of their places, and don't know where to find a thing that you want
for the rest of the day, and that will make us all comfortable.' The
Doctor then, laughing, returned to his place on the stool, that his wig—
or, as Madame d'Arblay calls it, the furniture of his head—might go
through its proper repairs. David, assuming a solemn air of profound
attention, fastened his eyes upon the hairdresser, as if wonderstruck at
his amazing skill. The man, highly gratified by such notice from the
celebrated Garrick, briskly worked on, frizzing, curling, powdering, and
pasting, after the mode of the day, with the utmost importance and
self-complacency. Garrick himself had on what he called his scratch wig,
which was so uncommonly ill-arranged and frightful that the whole family
agreed no one else could have appeared in such a state in the public
streets without risk of being hooted at. He dropped now all talk with
the Doctor, not even answering what he said, and seemed wholly absorbed
in watching what was going on; putting on, by degrees, with a power like
transformation, a little mean face of envy and sadness, such as he wore
in representing Abel Drugger, till at length, in the eyes of the
spectators, he passed out of himself altogether, and, with his mouth
hanging stupidly open, and his features vacant of all expression, he
became the likeness of some daubed wooden block in a barber's shop
window. The friseur, who at the beginning had felt flattered on seeing
his operations so curiously observed, was put out of countenance by this
incomprehensible change, became presently so embarrassed that he hardly
knew what he was about, and at last fell into utter consternation.
Scared and confounded, he hastily rolled up the last two curls, and
prepared to make his retreat; but before he could escape, Garrick,
lifting his own miserable scratch from his head, and holding it out on
his finger and thumb, squeaked out in a whining voice, 'Pray now, sir,
do you think, sir, you could touch me up this here old bob a little bit,
sir?'
The hairdresser dismissed, the actor, who could not help acting,
proceeded to give further proofs of his versatility. 'And so, Doctor,'
he began, 'you, with your tag-rag and bobtail there——' Here he pointed
to some shelves of shabby books and tracts, which he started up to
examine; the next moment, becoming an auctioneer, he offered for sale
these valuable works, each worth a hundred pounds, and proclaimed that
they were 'going, going, going, at a penny apiece.' Then, quietly
reseating himself: 'And so, Doctor,' he continued, 'you, and tag-rag and
bobtail there, shut yourselves up in this snug little bookstall, with
all your bright elves around you, to rest your understanding!' There
were loud cries of mock indignation from the young people at the idea of
papa resting his understanding. Garrick apologized in his best stage
manner, and after some further talk, inquired, 'But when, Doctor, shall
we have out the History of Histories? Do let me know in time, that I may
prepare to blow the trumpet of fame.' Of course, this was a prelude to
his appearing in the character of a cheap-jack, advertising 'the only
true History.' Invited to the parlour to breakfast, he excused himself
on the plea of being engaged at home to Twiss[16] and Boswell, whom
immediately he took off to the life. Encouraged by the laughter of his
audience, this most reprehensible person, who set no bounds to his
levity, proceeded to offer an imitation of Dr. Johnson himself. He
sincerely honoured and loved Dr. Johnson, he said, but that great man
had eccentricities which his most attached admirers were irresistibly
impelled to mimic. Arranging, therefore, his dress so as to enlarge his
person, in some strange way, several inches beyond its natural size,
assuming the voice and authoritative port of the lexicographer, and
giving a thundering stamp on the carpet, the devout worshipper of Dr.
Johnson delivered, with sundry extraordinary attitudes and gestures, a
short dialogue that had passed between them during the preceding week:
"David! Will you lend me your 'Petrarca'?"
"Y—e—s, sir!"
"David, you sigh?"
"Sir, you shall have it, certainly."
"Accordingly," Garrick continued, "the book—stupendously bound—I sent to
him that very evening. But scarcely had he taken the noble quarto in his
hands, when, as Boswell tells me, he poured forth a Greek ejaculation,
and a couplet or two from Horace; and then, in one of those fits of
enthusiasm which always seem to require that he should spread his arms
aloft in the air, his haste was so great to debarrass them for that
purpose, that he suddenly pounces my poor 'Petrarca' over his head upon
the floor—Russia leather, gold border, and all! And then, standing for
several minutes erect, lost in abstraction, he forgot, probably, that he
had ever seen it, and left my poor dislocated Beauty to the mercy of the
housemaid's morning mop!"
This concluded the performance, and the performer presently took his
leave. After he had said good-bye, and left the room, he hastily came
back, whimsically laughing, and said: 'Here's one of your maids
downstairs that I love prodigiously to talk to, because she is so cross!
She was washing, and rubbing, and scrubbing, and whitening and
brightening your steps this morning, and would hardly let me pass. Egad,
sir, she did not know the great Roscius! But I frightened her a little
just now: "Child," says I, "you don't guess whom you have the happiness
to see! Do you know that I am one of the first geniuses of the age? You
would faint away upon the spot if you could only imagine who I am!"'
One familiar face was no longer seen at Burney's house. Mr. Crisp had
become subject to such frequent fits of gout that his visits to London
were almost given up, and he rarely slept even a single night away from
Chesington. But his interest in musical and literary news, and in all
that concerned the Burney family, continued unabated. What he could no
more take part in himself was duly communicated to him by letter.
How early the correspondence between Frances and the family friend began
we are not informed. But it must have commenced long before she was old
enough to be admitted to parties such as she had now to describe to her
'daddy.' In a passage written at seventy-two, she has set down "a charge
delivered to me by our dear vehement Mr. Crisp at the opening of my
juvenile correspondence with him: 'Harkee, you little monkey! dash away
whatever comes uppermost; if you stop to consider either what you say,
or what may be said of you, I would not give one fig for your letters.'"
So rough a speech could not have been addressed, even by a professed
cynic, to any young lady very far advanced in her teens. In the letters
from which we are about to quote, Miss Fanny prattles to the old man
with perfect ease and confidence, showing that she felt herself on terms
of established familiarity, and was quite free from the shyness and
embarrassment that would attend a timid girl's first efforts to
entertain him.
For many years Dr. Burney had given informal evening concerts at his
house. These entertainments, to which he had been prompted by Crisp,
began in Poland Street, were continued in Queen Square, and attained
their highest distinction in St. Martin's Street. There was no band, no
hired singer, no programme, no admission by ticket. A word from the
courteous host was the only invitation needed or expected. But the
company, as well as the music, was attractive even to guests accustomed
to fashionable society. Before his writings made him famous, Burney's
extensive acquaintance brought him visitors whom the curious were
anxious to meet. Some came to see Sir Constantine Phipps, afterwards
Lord Mulgrave, on his return from his Arctic voyage. Others came for a
view of Omai, whom Captain Cook had imported from the South Seas. On one
occasion the gentle savage obliged the musical audience with a Tahitian
love-song, which proved to be a mere confused rumbling of uncouth
sounds. Whatever the incident of the evening, Crisp looked for a full
report of it from 'his Fannikin.'
The sense of humour which we may still see brimming over in her portrait
was greatly provoked by Bruce, the particular lion of that day. The
explorer was reported to have brought home with him drawings of a Theban
harp at least three thousand years old, and of an Abyssinian lyre in
present use, about which Fanny was evidently more sceptical than her
father, who was always ready to welcome materials for his 'History.'
'The Abyssinians have lyres, have they?' said George Selwyn; 'well, they
have one less since _he_ left their country.' Bruce was a personage of
stupendous height and breadth, whose pompous manners were proportioned
to his size and fame. 'He is the tallest man you ever saw in your life—
at least _gratis_,' wrote the observer. Nevertheless 'the man-mountain'
condescended to the Burneys. In the season of his greatest glory, he
figured several times at the Doctor's concerts, of which visits faithful
accounts were duly despatched to Chesington. On one of these evenings
Mr. Bruce even consented to stay supper, "which, you know," says Fanny,
"with us is nothing but a permission to sit over a table for chat, and
roast potatoes or apples. But now," she continues, "to perfect your
acquaintance with this towering Ethiopian, where do you think he will
take you during supper? To the source, or sources, you cry, of the Nile?
to Thebes? to its temple? to an arietta on the Theban harp? or perhaps
to banqueting on hot raw beef in Abyssinia? No such thing, my dear Mr.
Crisp—no such thing. Travellers who mean to write their travels are fit
for nothing but to represent the gap at your whist-table at Chesington,
when you have only three players; for they are dummies. Mr. Bruce left
all his exploits, his wanderings, his vanishings, his reappearances, his
harps so celestial, and his bullocks so terrestrial, to plant all our
entertainment within a hundred yards of our own coterie; namely, at the
masquerades at the Haymarket." Then follows a story of a practical jest
not worth copying. "To have looked at Mr. Bruce in his glee at this
buffoonery, you must really have been amused; though methinks I see,
supposing you had been with us, the picturesque rising of your brow, and
all the dignity of your Roman nose, while you would have stared at such
familiar delight in an active joke as to transport into so merry an
_espiègle_ the seven-footed loftiness of the haughty and impetuous
tourist from the sands of Ethiopia, and the waters of Abyssinia; whom,
nevertheless, I have now the honour to portray in his _robe de chambre_,
that is, in private society, to my dear Chesington daddy."
But far greater things were to follow this stalking of the African lion.
The Continental reputation which Dr. Burney acquired by his tours, and
which was extended by the first instalment of his 'History,' 'attracted
to his house,' as Macaulay points out, 'the most eminent musical
performers of that age. The greatest Italian singers who visited England
regarded him as the dispenser of fame in their art, and exerted
themselves to obtain his suffrage. Pacchierotti[17] became his intimate
friend. The rapacious Agujari,[18] who sang for nobody else under fifty
pounds an air, sang her best for Dr. Burney without a fee; and in the
company of Dr. Burney even the haughty and eccentric Gabrielli[19]
constrained herself to behave with civility. It was thus in his power to
give, with scarcely any expense, concerts equal to those of the
aristocracy. On such occasions the quiet street in which he lived was
blocked up by coroneted chariots, and his little drawing-room was
crowded with peers, peeresses, ministers, and ambassadors.'
The following extract from one of Fanny's letters contains a full
description of the most memorable of these musical evenings, though it
was one on which no foreign artist performed:
"You reproach me, my dear Mr. Crisp, for not sending you an account of
our last two concerts. But the fact is, I have not anything new to
tell you. The music has always been the same: the matrimonial
duets[20] are so much _à la mode_, that no other thing in our house is
now demanded. But if I can write you nothing new about music, you
want, I well know you will say, to hear some conversations.
My dear Mr. Crisp, there is, at this moment, no such thing as
conversation. There is only one question asked, meet whom you may,
namely: 'How do you like Gabrielli?' and only two modes,
contradictory, to be sure, but very steady, of reply: either, 'Of all
things upon earth!' or, 'Not the least bit in the whole world!'
Well, now I will present you with a specimen, beginning with our last
concert but one, and arranging the persons of the drama in the order
of their actual appearance.
But, imprimis, I should tell you that the motive to this concert was a
particular request to my father from Dr. King, our old friend, and the
chaplain to the British—something—at St. Petersburg, that he would
give a little music to a certain mighty personage, who, somehow or
other how, must needs take, transiently at least, a front place in
future history, namely, the famed favourite of the Empress Catherine
of Russia—Prince[21] Orloff.
There, my dear Mr. Crisp! what say you to seeing such a doughty
personage as that in a private house, at a private party, of a private
individual—fresh imported from the Czarina of all the Russias, to sip
a cup of tea in St. Martin's Street? I wonder whether future
historians will happen to mention this circumstance? I am thinking of
sending it to all the keepers of records. But I see your rising
eyebrows at this name—your start—your disgust—yet big curiosity.
Well, suppose the family assembled, its honoured chief in the midst—
and Tat, tat, tat, tat, at the door.
_Enter Dr. Ogle, Dean of Winchester._
_Dr. Burney_, after the usual ceremonies:—'Did you hear the Gabrielli
last night, Mr. Dean?'
_The Dean_: 'No, Doctor, I made the attempt, but soon retreated, for I
hate a crowd—as much as the ladies love it! I beg pardon!' bowing with
a sort of civil sneer at us fair sex.
My mother was entering upon a spirited defence, when—Tat, tat, tat.
_Enter Dr. King._
He brought the compliments of Prince Orloff, with his Highness's
apologies for being so late; but he was obliged to dine at Lord
Buckingham's, and thence to show himself at Lady Harrington's.
As nobody thought of inquiring into Dr. King's opinion of La
Gabrielli, conversation was at a stand, till—Tat, tat, tat, tat, too,
and
_Enter Lady Edgcumbe._
We were all introduced to her, and she was very chatty, courteous, and
entertaining. [Lady Edgcumbe is asked the usual question about
Gabrielli, as also are the Honourable Mr. and Mrs. Brudenel, who
appear next. Then we are introduced in succession to the Baron
Demidoff, Harris of Salisbury, and Lord Bruce.] At length—Tat, tat,
tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, too!
_Enter his Highness Prince Orloff._
Have you heard the dreadful story of the thumb, by which this terrible
Prince is said to have throttled the late Emperor of Russia, Peter, by
suddenly pressing his windpipe while he was drinking? I hope it is not
true; and Dr. King, of whom, while he resided in Russia, Prince Orloff
was the patron, denies the charge. Nevertheless, it is so currently
reported, that neither Susan nor I could keep it one moment from our
thoughts; and we both shrank from him with secret horror, heartily
wishing him in his own Black Sea.
His sight, however, produced a strong sensation, both in those who
believed, and those who discredited this disgusting barbarity; for
another story, not perhaps of less real, though of less sanguinary
guilt, is not a tale of rumour, but a crime of certainty; namely, that
he is the first favourite of the cruel, inhuman Empress—if it be true
that she connived at this horrible murder.
His Highness was immediately preceded by another Russian nobleman,
whose name I have forgot; and followed by a noble Hessian, General
Bawr.
Prince Orloff is of stupendous stature, something resembling Mr.
Bruce. He is handsome, tall, fat, upright, magnificent. His dress was
superb. Besides the blue garter, he had a star of diamonds of
prodigious brilliancy, a shoulder-knot of the same lustre and value,
and a picture of the Empress hung about his neck, set round with
diamonds of such brightness and magnitude that, when near the light,
they were too dazzling for the eye. His jewels, Dr. King says, are
estimated at one hundred thousand pounds sterling.
His air and address are showy, striking, and assiduously courteous. He
had a look that frequently seemed to say, 'I hope you observe that I
come from a polished Court? I hope you take note that I am no
Cossack?' Yet, with all this display of commanding affability, he
seems, from his native taste and humour, 'agreeably addicted to
pleasantry,' He speaks very little English, but knows French
perfectly.
His introduction to my father, in which Dr. King pompously figured,
passed in the drawing-room. The library was so crowded that he could
only show himself at the door, which was barely high enough not to
discompose his prodigious toupee. He bowed to Mr. Chamier,[22] then my
next neighbour, whom he had somewhere met; but I was so impressed by
the shocking rumours of his horrible actions, that involuntarily I
drew back even from a bow of vicinity; murmuring to Mr. Chamier, 'He
looks so potent and mighty, I do not like to be near him!'
'He has been less unfortunate,' answered Mr. Chamier archly,
'elsewhere; such objection has not been made to him by all ladies.'
Lord Bruce, who knew, immediately rose to make way for him, and moved
to another end of the room. The Prince instantly held out his vast
hand, in which, if he had also held a cambric handkerchief, it must
have looked like a white flag on the top of a mast—so much higher than
the most tip-top height of every head in the room was his spread-out
arm, as he exclaimed, '_Ah! milord me fuit!_'
His Honour,[23] then, rising also, with a profound reverence, offered
his seat to his Highness; but he positively refused to accept it, and
declared that if Mr. Brudenel would not be seated, he would himself
retire; and seeing Mr. Brudenel demur, still begging his Highness to
take the chair, he cried, with a laugh, but very peremptorily, '_Non,
non, monsieur! Je ne le veux pas! Je suis opiniâtre, moi; un peu comme
Messieurs les Anglais!_'
Mr. Brudenel then reseated himself; and the corner of a form appearing
to be vacant, from the pains taken by poor Susan to shrink away from
Mr. Orloff, his Highness suddenly dropped down upon it his immense
weight, with a force—notwithstanding a palpable and studied endeavour
to avoid doing mischief—that threatened his gigantic person with
plumping upon the floor, and terrified all on the opposite side of the
form with the danger of visiting the ceiling.
Perceiving Susan strive, though vainly, from want of space, to glide
further off from him, and struck, perhaps, by her sweet countenance,
'_Ah, ha!_' he cried, '_je tiens ici, je vois, une petite
prisonnière!_'
Charlotte, blooming like a budding little Hebe, actually stole into a
corner from affright at the whispered history of his thumb ferocity.
Mr. Chamier, who now probably had developed what passed in my mind,
contrived, very comically, to disclose his similar sentiment; for,
making a quiet way to my ear, he said in a low voice, 'I wish Dr.
Burney had invited Omiah here tonight instead of Prince Orloff!'—
meaning, no doubt, of the two exotics, he should have preferred the
most innocent!
The grand duet of Müthel was now called for, and played; but I can
tell you nothing extra of the admiration it excited. Your Hettina
looked remarkably pretty; and, added to the applause given to the
music, everybody had something to observe upon the singularity of the
performers being husband and wife. Prince Orloff was witty quite to
facetiousness; sarcastically marking something beyond what he said, by
a certain ogling, half-cynical, half-amorous cast of his eyes; and
declaring he should take care to initiate all the foreign academies of
natural philosophy in the secret of the harmony that might be produced
by such nuptial concord.
The Russian nobleman who accompanied Prince Orloff, and who knew
English, they told us, so well that he was the best interpreter for
his Highness in his visits, gave us now a specimen of his proficiency;
for, clapping his fore-finger upon a superfine snuff-box, he
exclaimed, when the duet was finished, 'Ma foi, dis is so pretty as
never I hear in my life!'
General Bawr also, to whom Mr. Harris directed my attention, was
greatly charmed. He is tall, and of stern and martial aspect. 'He is a
man,' said Mr. Harris, 'to be looked at, from his courage, conduct,
and success during the last Russian war; when, though a Hessian by
birth, he was a lieutenant-general in the service of the Empress of
Russia, and obtained the two military stars, which you now see him
wear on each side, by his valour!'...
Then followed, to vary the entertainment, singing by Mrs. Brudenel.
Prince Orloff inquired very particularly of Dr. King who we four young
female Burneys were; for we were all dressed alike, on account of our
mourning; and when Dr. King answered, 'Dr. Burney's daughters,' he was
quite astonished, for he had not thought our dear father, he said,
more than thirty years of age, if so much.
Mr. Harris, in a whisper, told me he wished some of the ladies would
desire to see the miniature of the Empress a little nearer; the
monstrous height of the Prince putting it quite out of view to his old
eyes and short figure; and being a man, he could not, he said, presume
to ask such an indulgence as that of holding it in his own hands.
Delighted to do anything for this excellent Mr. Harris, and quite at
my ease with poor prosing Dr. King, I told him the wish of Mr. Harris.
Dr. King whispered the desire to M. de Demidoff; M. de Demidoff did
the same to General de Bawr; and General de Bawr dauntlessly made the
petition to the Prince, in the name of _The Ladies_.
The Prince laughed, rather sardonically; yet with ready good humour
complied, telling the General, pretty much _sans ceremonie_, to untie
the ribbon round his neck, and give the picture into the possession of
_The Ladies_.
He was very gallant and debonnaire upon the occasion, entreating they
would by no means hurry themselves; yet his smile, as his eye sharply
followed the progress from hand to hand of the miniature, had a
suspicious cast of investigating whether it would be worth his while
to ask any favour of them in return! and through all the superb
magnificence of his display of courtly manners, a little bit of the
Cossack, methought, broke out, when he desired to know whether _The
Ladies_ wished for anything else—declaring, with a smiling bow, and
rolling, languishing, yet half-contemptuous eyes, that, if _The
Ladies_ would issue their commands, they should strip him entirely!
You may suppose, after that, nobody asked for a closer view of any
more of his ornaments! The good, yet unaffectedly humorous philosopher
of Salisbury could not help laughing, even while actually blushing at
it, that his own curiosity should have involved _The Ladies_ in this
supercilious sort of sarcastic homage.
There was hardly any looking at the picture of the Empress for the
glare of the diamonds. One of them, I really believe, was as big as a
nutmeg; though I am somewhat ashamed to undignify my subject by so
culinary a comparison.
When we were all satisfied, the miniature was restored by General Bawr
to the Prince, who took it with stately complacency; condescendingly
making a smiling bow to each fair female who had had possession of it,
and receiving from her in return a lowly courtesy.
Mr. Harris, who was the most curious to see the Empress, because his
son, Sir James,[24] was, or is intended to be, Minister at her Court,
had slyly looked over every shoulder that held her; but would not
venture, he archly whispered, to take the picture in his own hands,
lest he should be included by the Prince amongst _The Ladies_, as an
old woman!
Have you had enough of this concert, my dear Mr. Crisp? I have given
it in detail, for the humour of letting you see how absorbing of the
public voice is La Gabrielli; and also for describing to you Prince
Orloff, a man who, when time lets out facts, and drives in mysteries,
must necessarily make a considerable figure, good or bad—but certainly
not indifferent—in European history. Besides, I want your opinion
whether there is not an odd and striking resemblance in general
manners, as well as in herculean strength and height, in this Siberian
Prince and his Abyssinian Majesty?"
On another musical evening, of which Fanny wrote an account, there were
present: the French Ambassador, the Count de Guignes, at whose request
the concert was given; the Danish Ambassador, Baron Deiden, and his
wife; the Groom of the Stole, Lord Ashburnham, 'with his gold key
dangling from his pocket;' Lord Barrington from the War Office, and Lord
Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty. Of this last, the boon-companion
and denouncer[25] of Wilkes, Miss Fanny naïvely asks, "I want to know
why he is called Jemmy Twitcher in the newspapers? Do pray tell me
that."
Very seldom, in these latter days, does any private carriage, with or
without a coronet on its panels, turn into the decayed thoroughfare
running down from the bottom of Leicester Square. 'Vulgarly-peopled,'
according to Madame d'Arblay, even in her father's time, St. Martin's
Street has since fallen many degrees lower yet. The house to which the
fashionable world was drawn by the charms of Burney's music stands on
the east side, immediately above the chapel at the corner of Orange
Street. The glass observatory which Dr. Burney repaired, and which he
subsequently rebuilt when it was blown away by a gale of wind, has long
since disappeared. It was replaced by a wooden[26] erection, or what
Macaulay calls 'a square turret,' which, when the essayist wrote,
distinguished the house from all the surrounding buildings. This
erection also has been removed, but the house itself cannot be mistaken
by any passer-by who cares to see it. A tablet on the front bears the
inscription: 'Sir Isaac Newton, philosopher, lived here.' The house is
at present the quarters of the United Service Warrant Officers' Club. No
great effort is required to imagine the plain, silent Newton passing in
and out of that slender doorway. The movements of the man _qui genus
humanum ingenio superavit_ were without noise and ostentation. We may
let half a century go by in thought, and with equal ease picture to
ourselves David Garrick tripping up the steps before breakfast; Samuel
Johnson rolling up them for a call, on his way to dine with Mrs.
Montagu; pleasant Dr. Burney briskly setting out on his daily round of
lessons; and demure Miss Fanny sallying forth to seek an interview
_incognita_ with her publisher. But how call up the scene, when the
lacqueys of Count Orloff—Orloff the Big, Walpole calls him—thundered at
the knocker, or when officers of the Household, displaying the ensigns
of their rank, peers with stars and orders, and great ladies arrayed in
brocaded silks and immense head-dresses, followed one another up a
confined staircase[27] into a couple of small and crowded
reception-rooms? Standing opposite to the club where our gallant petty
officers of to-day congregate, and noticing that to the left of it, on
the other side of Long's Court, there is now a cheap lodging-house for
working men, and that a little further to the left, at the entrance from
the Square, the roadway narrows, as we learn from the "Memoirs" that it
did in Burney's time, till there is barely room for a single vehicle of
moderate size to pass, we recognise the limitations of the human fancy.
It is difficult to conceive of a great aristocratic crowd assembling in
such a place. We can understand the pride with which Fanny set down the
prolonged _rat-tat-tat-tat-too_ that announced the arrival of each
titled and decorated visitor. We may observe the pains she took to draw
and colour for her country correspondent groups of dazzling figures such
as had never been seen in the more spacious area of Queen Square. But
they are gone, and in presence of the dirt and squalor which have made
St. Martin's Street little better than an East-End slum, their shadows
will not revisit the glimpses of the moon. _Sic transit gloria mundi._
Somewhat later, Dr. Burney formed a new connection which had an
important influence on the life of his second daughter. He was invited
to Streatham by Mr. and Mrs. Thrale to give lessons in music to their
eldest daughter, familiarly called Queeny, who afterwards became
Viscountess Keith. There, besides winning the regard of the Thrales, he
renewed his acquaintance with Dr. Johnson, to whom he had made himself
known by letter twenty-two years before. Johnson, who had no ear,
despised music, and was wont to speak slightingly of its professors, but
he conceived a strong liking for Burney. In bringing out the 'Tour to
the Hebrides,' the author confessed that he had kept his friend's
Musical Tours in view. At this time, Richard, the youngest son of Dr.
Burney, born of his second marriage, was preparing for Winchester
School, whither his father proposed conveying him in person. Johnson,
who was a friend of Dr. Warton, the headmaster, volunteered to accompany
them, and introduce the new pupil. This joint expedition of Johnson and
Burney was followed by a similar one to Oxford, and their intercourse
became so cordial that Mrs. Thrale and Johnson arranged to meet in St.
Martin's Street, there to make acquaintance with Burney's family, to
look over his library, and to see Newton's house. Fanny, who had just
come up from Chesington, wrote an account of this visit to her daddy:
"MY DEAREST MR. CRISP,
My father seemed well pleased at my returning to my time; so
that is no small consolation and pleasure to me for the pain of
quitting you. So now to our Thursday morning and Dr. Johnson,
according to my promise.
We were all—by we, I mean Suzette, Charlotte, and I—for my mother had
seen him before, as had my sister Burney; but we three were all in a
twitter from violent expectation and curiosity for the sight of this
monarch of books and authors.
Mrs. and Miss Thrale, Miss Owen, and Mr. Seward,[28] came long before
Lexiphanes. Mrs. Thrale is a pretty woman still, though she has some
defect in the mouth that looks like a cut or scar; but her nose is
very handsome, her complexion very fair; she has the _embonpoint
charmant_, and her eyes are blue and lustrous. She is extremely lively
and chatty, and showed none of the supercilious or pedantic airs so
freely, or rather so scoffingly, attributed by you envious lords of
the creation to women of learning or celebrity; on the contrary, she
is full of sport, remarkably gay, and excessively agreeable. I liked
her in everything except her entrance into the room, which was rather
florid and flourishing, as who should say, 'It's I!—no less a person
than Mrs. Thrale!' However, all that ostentation wore out in the
course of the visit, which lasted the whole morning; and you could not
have helped liking her, she is so very entertaining—though not simple
enough, I believe, for quite winning your heart....
The conversation was supported with a great deal of vivacity, as usual
when il Signor Padrone is at home; but I can write you none of it, as
I was still in the same twitter, twitter, twitter, I have
acknowledged, to see Dr. Johnson. Nothing could have heightened my
impatience—unless Pope could have been brought to life again—or,
perhaps, Shakespeare!
This confab was broken up by a duet between your Hettina and, for the
first time to company-listeners, Suzette; who, however, escaped much
fright, for she soon found she had no musical critics to encounter in
Mrs. Thrale and Mr. Seward, or Miss Owen, who know not a flat from a
sharp, nor a crotchet from a quaver. But every knowledge is not given
to everybody—except to two gentle wights of my acquaintance: the one
commonly hight il Padre, and the other il Dadda. Do you know any such
sort of people, sir? Well, in the midst of this performance, and
before the second movement was come to a close, Dr. Johnson was
announced!
Now, my dear Mr. Crisp, if you like a description of emotions and
sensations—but I know you treat them all as burlesque; so let's
proceed.
Everybody rose to do him honour, and he returned the attention with
the most formal courtesy. My father then, having welcomed him with the
warmest respect, whispered to him that music was going forward, which
he would not, my father thinks, have found out; and, placing him on
the best seat vacant, told his daughters to go on with the duet; while
Dr. Johnson, intently rolling towards them one eye—for they say he
does not see with the other—made a grave nod, and gave a dignified
motion with one hand, in silent approvance of the proceeding.
But now, my dear Mr. Crisp, I am mortified to own—what you, who always
smile at my enthusiasm, will hear without caring a straw for—that he
is, indeed, very ill-favoured. Yet he has naturally a noble figure;
tall, stout, grand, and authoritative: but he stoops horribly; his
back is quite round: his mouth is continually opening and shutting, as
if he were chewing something; he has a singular method of twirling his
fingers, and twisting his hands: his vast body is in constant
agitation, see-sawing backwards and forwards: his feet are never a
moment quiet; and his whole person looked often as if it were going to
roll itself, quite voluntarily, from his chair to the floor.
Since such is his appearance to a person so prejudiced in his favour
as I am, how I must more than ever reverence his abilities, when I
tell you that, upon asking my father why he had not prepared us for
such uncouth, untoward strangeness, he laughed heartily, and said he
had entirely forgotten that the same impression had been, at first,
made upon himself, but had been lost even on the second interview—how
I long to see him again, to lose it, too!—for knowing the value of
what would come out when he spoke, he ceased to observe the defects
that were out while he was silent.
But you always charge me to write without reserve or reservation, and
so I obey, as usual. Else, I should be ashamed to acknowledge having
remarked such exterior blemishes in so exalted a character.
His dress, considering the times, and that he had meant to put on all
his best _becomes_—for he was engaged to dine with a very fine party
at Mrs. Montagu's—was as much out of the common road as his figure. He
had a large, full, bushy wig, a snuff-colour coat, with gold buttons
(or, peradventure, brass), but no ruffles to his doughty fists; and
not, I suppose, to be taken for a Blue, though going to the Blue
Queen, he had on very coarse black worsted stockings.
He is shockingly near-sighted; a thousand times more so than either my
Padre or myself. He did not even know Mrs. Thrale, till she held out
her hand to him, which she did very engagingly. After the first few
minutes, he drew his chair close to the pianoforte, and then bent down
his nose quite over the keys, to examine them, and the four hands at
work upon them; till poor Hetty and Susan hardly knew how to play on,
for fear of touching his phiz; or, which was harder still, how to keep
their countenances; and the less, as Mr. Seward, who seems to be very
droll and shrewd, and was much diverted, ogled them slyly, with a
provoking expression of arch enjoyment of their apprehensions.
When the duet was finished, my father introduced your Hettina to him,
as an old acquaintance, to whom, when she was a little girl, he had
presented his Idler.
His answer to this was imprinting on her pretty face—not a half touch
of a courtly salute—but a good, real, substantial, and very loud kiss.
Everybody was obliged to stroke their chins, that they might hide
their mouths.
Beyond this chaste embrace, his attention was not to be drawn off two
minutes longer from the books, to which he now strided his way; for we
had left the drawing-room for the library, on account of the
pianoforte. He pored over them, shelf by shelf, almost brushing them
with his eyelashes from near examination. At last, fixing upon
something that happened to hit his fancy, he took it down; and,
standing aloof from the company, which he seemed clean and clear to
forget, he began, without further ceremony, and very composedly, to
read to himself; and as intently as if he had been alone in his own
study.
We were all excessively provoked: for we were languishing, fretting,
expiring to hear him talk—not to see him read! What could that do for
us?
My sister then played another duet, accompanied by my father, to which
Miss Thrale seemed very attentive; and all the rest quietly resigned.
But Dr. Johnson had opened a volume of the British Encyclopædia, and
was so deeply engaged, that the music, probably, never reached his
ears.
When it was over, Mrs. Thrale, in a laughing manner, said: 'Pray, Dr.
Burney, will you be so good as to tell me what that song was, and
whose, which Savoi sang last night at Bach's[29] concert, and which
you did not hear?'
My father confessed himself by no means so able a diviner, not having
had time to consult the stars, though he lived in the house of Sir
Isaac Newton. But, anxious to draw Dr. Johnson into conversation, he
ventured to interrupt him with Mrs. Thrale's conjuring request
relative to Bach's concert.
The Doctor, comprehending his drift, good-naturedly put away his book,
and, see-sawing, with a very humorous smile, drolly repeated: 'Bach,
sir?—Bach's concert? And pray, sir, who is Bach? Is he a piper?'
You may imagine what exclamations followed such a question.
Mrs. Thrale gave a detailed account of the nature of the concert, and
the fame of Mr. Bach, and the many charming performances she had
heard, with all their varieties, in his rooms.
When there was a pause, 'Pray, madam,' said he, with the calmest
gravity, 'what is the expense for all this?'
'Oh,' answered she, 'the expense is much trouble and solicitation to
obtain a subscriber's ticket—or else, half a guinea!'
'Trouble and solicitation,' he replied, 'I will have nothing to do
with; but, if it be so fine, I would be willing to give'—he hesitated,
and then finished with—'eighteen-pence.'
Ha! ha! Chocolate being then brought, we returned to the drawing-room;
and Dr. Johnson, when drawn away from the books, freely, and with
social good-humour, gave himself up to conversation.
The intended dinner of Mrs. Montagu being mentioned, Dr. Johnson
laughingly told us that he had received the most flattering note that
he had ever read, or that anybody else had ever read, of invitation
from that lady.
'So have I, too!' cried Mrs. Thrale. 'So, if a note from Mrs. Montagu
is to be boasted of, I beg mine may not be forgotten.'
'Your note, madam,' cried Dr. Johnson, smiling, 'can bear no
comparison with mine; for I am at the head of all the philosophers—she
says.'
'And I,' returned Mrs. Thrale, 'have all the Muses in my train.'
'A fair battle!' cried my father. 'Come, compliment for compliment,
and see who will hold out longest!'
'I am afraid for Mrs. Thrale,' said Mr. Seward; 'for I know that Mrs.
Montagu exerts all her forces when she sings the praises of Dr.
Johnson.'
'Oh yes,' cried Mrs. Thrale, 'she has often praised him till he has
been ready to faint.'
'Well,' said my father, 'you two ladies must get him fairly between
you to-day, and see which can lay on the paint the thickest—Mrs.
Montagu or Mrs. Thrale.'
'I had rather,' said the Doctor very composedly, 'go to Bach's
concert!'"
Not long after the morning call described in our last extract, Johnson
spent an evening in St. Martin's Street, for the purpose of being
introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Greville. The Doctor came with Mr. and Mrs.
Thrale. Signor Piozzi was there, invited to amuse the company by his
musical skill. But the account of the second visit reads much less
pleasantly than that of the first. This is due in great part to the
different behaviour of the principal guests. Burney's old patron,
Greville, had for years been going steadily down hill, through
indulgence in play and other extravagances. The loss of his fortune,
perhaps, inclined him to assert more stiffly the claims of his rank. At
any rate, in presence of the Thrales and Johnson, he thought it
necessary to appear superior to the brewer's wealth and the author's
fame. Johnson seems to have only half perceived his disdain; but the
Doctor was not in a mood for talking, and Greville made no attempt to
draw him out. Nor are the actors only changed on this subsequent
occasion; the narrator is changed also. Instead of a letter by Fanny
Burney, dashed off in the hey-day of youth and spirits, we have a formal
account by her later self, Madame d'Arblay, composed in the peculiar
style which makes a great part of the 'Memoirs' such difficult reading.
However, as this account records Mrs. Thrale's first meeting with the
man who was destined to exercise a fatal influence on her after-life, we
give a portion of it here:
"Mrs. Thrale, of the whole coterie, was alone at her ease. She feared
not Dr. Johnson; for fear made no part of her composition; and with
Mrs. Greville, as a fair rival genius, she would have been glad, from
curiosity, to have had the honour of a little tilt, in full
carelessness of its event; for though triumphant when victorious, she
had spirits so volatile, and such utter exemption from envy or spleen,
that she was gaily free from mortification when vanquished. But she
knew the meeting to have been fabricated for Dr. Johnson, and,
therefore, though not without difficulty, constrained herself to be
passive.
"When, however, she observed the sardonic disposition of Mr. Greville
to stare around him at the whole company in curious silence, she felt
a defiance against his aristocracy beat in every pulse; for, however
grandly he might look back to the long ancestry of the Brookes and the
Grevilles, she had a glowing consciousness that her own blood, rapid
and fluent, flowed in her veins from Adam of Saltsburg;[30] and, at
length, provoked by the dulness of a taciturnity that, in the midst of
such renowned interlocutors, produced as narcotic a torpor as could
have been caused by a dearth the most barren of human faculties, she
grew tired of the music, and yet more tired of remaining, what as
little suited her inclinations as her abilities, a mere cipher in the
company; and, holding such a position, and all its concomitants, to be
ridiculous, her spirits rose rebelliously above her control, and, in a
fit of utter recklessness of what might be thought of her by her fine
new acquaintance, she suddenly but softly arose, and stealing on
tip-toe behind Signor Piozzi, who was accompanying himself on the
pianoforte to an animated _aria parlante_, with his back to the
company, and his face to the wall, she ludicrously began imitating him
by squaring her elbows, elevating them with ecstatic shrugs of the
shoulders, and casting up her eyes, while languishingly reclining her
head, as if she were not less enthusiastically, though somewhat more
suddenly, struck with the transports of harmony than himself.
"This grotesque ebullition of ungovernable gaiety was not perceived by
Dr. Johnson, who faced the fire, with his back to the performer and
the instrument. But the amusement which such an unlooked-for
exhibition caused to the party was momentary; for Dr. Burney, shocked
lest the poor Signor should observe, and be hurt by this mimicry,
glided gently round to Mrs. Thrale, and, with something between
pleasantry and severity, whispered to her, 'Because, madam, you have
no ear yourself for music, will you destroy the attention of all who,
in that one point, are otherwise gifted?'
"It was now that shone the brightest attribute of Mrs. Thrale,
sweetness of temper. She took this rebuke with a candour, and a sense
of its justice the most amiable; she nodded her approbation of the
admonition; and, returning to her chair, quietly sat down, as she
afterwards said, like a pretty little miss, for the remainder of one
of the most humdrum evenings that she had ever passed.
"Strange, indeed, strange and most strange, the event considered, was
this opening intercourse between Mrs. Thrale and Signor Piozzi. Little
could she imagine that the person she was thus called away from
holding up to ridicule, would become, but a few years afterwards, the
idol of her fancy, and the lord of her destiny! And little did the
company present imagine, that this burlesque scene was but the first
of a drama the most extraordinary of real life, of which these two
persons were to be the hero and heroine; though, when the catastrophe
was known, this incident, witnessed by so many, was recollected and
repeated from coterie to coterie throughout London, with comments and
sarcasms of endless variety."
-----
Footnote 15:
James Harris, author of 'Hermes; or a Philosophical Inquiry into
Universal Grammar,' and several other works. Entering Parliament in
1761, he became a Lord of the Admiralty, and subsequently a Lord of
the Treasury, etc. He died in 1786.
Footnote 16:
Author of 'Travels in Spain.'
Footnote 17:
'Nothing is fit to be heard but Pacchierotti,' was the general
verdict, according to Walpole.
Footnote 18:
A celebrated Italian singer, wife of Colla, an Italian composer. She
was engaged at the Pantheon to sing two songs nightly, for which she
received £100.
Footnote 19:
A performer of great Continental reputation, whose merits were much
controverted in England. 'Is, or has the Gabrielli been, a great
singer?' asks Walpole of his Florence correspondent. 'She has, at
least, not honoured us but with a most slender low voice.'
Footnote 20:
Duets between Esther Burney, now married, and her husband, who was
also her cousin and a Burney. Esther was the beauty of the family,
and became a wife early.
Footnote 21:
Fanny should rather have written, _Count_ Orloff.
Footnote 22:
Anthony Chamier was member of Parliament for Tamworth, and
Under-Secretary of State from 1775 till his death in 1780. He was an
original member of the celebrated Literary Club.
Footnote 23:
A name by which Mr. Brudenel, afterwards Earl of Cardigan, was
known.
Footnote 24:
Afterwards Lord Malmesbury.
Footnote 25:
We need scarcely remind our readers that, in 1763, Sandwich had
denounced Wilkes in the House of Lords for having composed and printed
the 'Essay on Woman,' an indecent parody on Pope's 'Essay on Man.'
Society resented the attack, placing the accuser and accused on a par
in point of morals. 'The public indignation went so far, that the
_Beggar's Opera_ being performed at Covent Garden Theatre soon after
this event, the whole audience, when Macheath says, "That Jemmy
Twitcher should peach, I own surprises me," burst out into an applause
of application, and the nickname of "Jemmy Twitcher" stuck by the Earl
so as almost to occasion the disuse of his title.'—Walpole's 'Memoirs
of George III.,' vol. i., p. 313.
Footnote 26:
The observatory in its later form is stated to have been put up in the
early years of the present century, by a Frenchman, then tenant of the
house, who placed in it some mathematical instruments, which he
exhibited as the identical instruments with which the great Newton
made his discoveries; and we are told that this ingenious person
realized a considerable sum before his imposture was exposed. See 'The
Streets of London,' by J. T. Smith, edited by Charles Mackay, 1849, p.
76.
Footnote 27:
There is some account both of the inside and outside of Newton's house
in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for 1814. At that date, we learn among
other things, the original chimney-piece in the observatory remained,
though the room itself had undergone a change. The house appears to
have been built about 1692.
Footnote 28:
William Seward, afterwards author of 'Anecdotes of Distinguished
Persons,' and 'Biographiana,' a sequel to the same.
Footnote 29:
John Christian Bach, sometimes called Bach of Berlin, who for many
years was established in England.
Footnote 30:
Hester Lynch Salusbury (Mrs. Thrale) claimed to be lineally
descended from Adam of Saltsburg, who came over to England with the
Conqueror.
-----
CHAPTER III.
'Evelina'—Date of its Composition—Negotiations with Publishers—Dr.
Burney's Consent—Publication—Illness of the Author—Visit to
Chesington—Her Father reads the Book—Mrs. Thrale and Mrs.
Cholmondeley—Exciting News—Fanny's Success—Nancy Dawson—The Secret
told to Mr. Crisp—Characters in 'Evelina'—Dinner at Streatham—Dr.
Johnson—David Garrick—The Unclubbable Man—Curiosity as to Authorship
of 'Evelina'—The Bookseller in the Dark—Visits to the Thrales—Table
Talk—Mr. Smith—Goldsmith—Johnson and the Scotch—Civil for Four—Sir
Joshua Reynolds—Mrs. Montagu—Boswell—The Branghtons—Mrs. Cholmondeley—
Talk with Sir Joshua—Is it True?—Mrs. Cholmondeley's Whimsical Manner—
Visit to her House—Mr. Cumberland—A Hint for a Comedy—A Charmed
Circle—Sheridan—Not a Fair Question—Pressed to Write for the Stage—
Flattered by Compliments.
We now approach the time when the 'History of Evelina' was given to the
world. There has been much futile controversy as to the date at which
this novel was composed. As the author was unquestionably half-way
between twenty-five and twenty-six when her first book was published, it
has been inferred that she was not much below that age when she began
the story. This inference was put in sharp contrast with a current
report—which cannot be traced to Frances Burney or her family—that she
wrote 'Evelina' at seventeen. Her enemy Croker went so far as to suggest
that she represented herself to have been ten years younger than she
really was at the period of the publication.[31] But if we may trust
Mrs. Barrett, who had not only the 'Memoirs,' but Fanny's early and
still unpublished journals to guide her, the author herself would have
been puzzled to say exactly when her tale was written. It was planned in
girlhood, worked at by snatches, and occupied long years in growing up.
The idea of seeing it in print seems to have been conceived in 1776,
shortly after the appearance of the first volume of her father's
History, and we are distinctly told by Madame d'Arblay and her
biographer, that there was already a manuscript in existence. We gather,
however, that this manuscript was imperfect; and it would manifestly be
presuming too much to suppose that its contents remained unaltered, and
unimproved, in the transcript which the writer proceeded to make before
taking any other step.
Though stimulated by her father's success, and encouraged by her
sisters, whom she took into her confidence, Fanny was, nevertheless,
determined that, in bringing forward her work, she would keep its
authorship unknown. She therefore copied out her manuscript in a feigned
upright hand, in order to guard against the possibility of her ordinary
writing being recognised by some one who had seen the numerous pages of
the paternal books which she had transcribed for the printer. Tiring of
her irksome task when she had accomplished enough to fill two volumes,
she wrote a letter, without signature, to be sent to some bookseller,
offering the fairly-copied portion for immediate publication, and
promising to forward the rest in the following year. This proposal was
first directed to Dodsley, who, in answer, declined to look at anything
without being previously informed of the author's name. Fanny and her
sisters, "after sitting in committee on this lofty reply," addressed
another offer, in like terms, to Lowndes, a publisher in Fleet Street.
The latter, less exacting than his brother at the West-End, desired to
see the manuscript, which—there being no Parcels Delivery Company in
those days—was conveyed to him by young Charles Burney, muffled up by
his sisters to make him look older than he was. Lowndes read, was
pleased, and declared himself willing to purchase and print the work
when finished, but he naturally would not hear of publishing an
unfinished novel. Disappointed at this second rebuff, the impatient
aspirant gave up hope; but, her spirits reviving, after a time, her
third volume was completed and copied before the end of the twelvemonth.
Meanwhile, a scruple had arisen in her mind. Her correspondence with
Lowndes had been carried on without her father's knowledge; the
publisher's letters to her being addressed to Mr. Grafton, and sent to
the Orange Coffee House, in Orange Street. But she now saw it to be her
duty not to rush into print without Dr. Burney's consent. Availing
herself of a propitious moment, when he was bidding her good-bye before
setting out on a visit to Chesington, she confessed to him, with many
blushes, that she had written a little book, and hoped that he would
allow her to publish it on condition of not disclosing her name. She
assured him that he should not be troubled in the business, which her
brother Charles would manage for her, and only begged further that he
would not himself ask to see the manuscript. The Doctor was first
amazed, then amused, and finally bursting into a laugh, kissed her, and
bade her see that Charles was discreet, thus tacitly granting her
petition. The completed work was now forwarded to Lowndes, who without
much delay accepted it, and paid the author what seemed to her the
magnificent sum of twenty pounds for the copyright.
Much censure has been thrown on Dr. Burney for his conduct in this
transaction. He ought, we are told, to have given his daughter serious
counsel as to the perils of authorship, to have inquired into the merits
of her production, and to have seen that she made the best possible
terms with the bookseller. 'Happily,' says Macaulay, 'his inexcusable
neglect of duty caused her no worse evil than the loss of twelve or
fifteen hundred pounds.' We doubt if it cost her the twelfth part of the
smaller sum. It is most unlikely, we think, that an untried and
anonymous writer could, with the best assistance, have commanded a
hundred pounds for a first attempt at fiction. We are not concerned to
defend Dr. Burney, but to us he seems to have failed less in carefulness
than in discernment. He could not believe his ears when Frances spoke of
having a book ready for the press. He looked on her scheme of
publication as an idle fancy, and doubtless was convinced that nothing
would come of it. Her motive for concealing her project from him had
been merely dread of his ridicule. Until 'Evelina' became an assured
success, he had no faith in the ability of his second daughter. 'Poor
Fanny'—so he used to call her—was, in his eyes, a dutiful and
affectionate child, and a useful amanuensis, and nothing more. So little
did he expect ever to hear again of her embryo work, that he did not
even ask its title.
At length, in January, 1778, 'Evelina' was published. The author was
informed of the event through hearing an advertisement announcing it
read aloud by her step-mother at breakfast-time. Those of the party who
were in the secret smiled, or blushed; those who were not suspected
nothing. Several weeks elapsed before the new novel attracted much
attention. Meanwhile the writer was laid up with inflammation of the
lungs. On quitting her bedroom, she found that, in the circles known to
her, her book was being widely read, with speculations as to its
authorship. One acquaintance attributed it to Anstey, then famous for
his 'New Bath Guide;' most voices agreed that it could not have
proceeded from a woman's pen—a conclusion which, with the usual
perversity of her sex, Miss Burney regarded as a high compliment. Then
the magazines commenced to speak in its praise. The _London Review_ and
the _Monthly Review_ both gave favourable notices. Thus stimulated, the
sale increased, till at the end of the fifth month two editions had been
exhausted, and a third was fast being disposed of.[32] By May, Fanny was
sufficiently recovered to leave town, and went on a long visit to
Chesington, where, as she 'could hardly walk three yards in a day at
first,' she amused herself with reading 'Evelina' to Daddy Crisp, and
goading his curiosity by allusions to dark reports about its origin.
Crisp, who, of course, suspected some mystery, was guarded in his
praise, but gratified his young favourite by betraying a most uncynical
eagerness for the third volume as soon as the first two had been
despatched. Before long, exciting letters from home began to pour in on
the convalescent at the Hall. She gives the substance of some of them in
her Diary:
"I received from Charlotte a letter, the most interesting that could
be written to me, for it acquainted me that my dear father was at
length reading my book, which has now been published six months. How
this has come to pass, I am yet in the dark; but it seems ... he
desired Charlotte to bring him the _Monthly Review_; she contrived to
look over his shoulder as he opened it, which he did at the account of
'Evelina; or, A Young Lady's Entrance into the World.' He read it with
great earnestness, then put it down; and presently after snatched it
up, and read it again. Doubtless his paternal heart felt some
agitation for his girl in reading a review of her publication!—how he
got at the name I cannot imagine. Soon after, he turned to Charlotte,
and bidding her come close to him, he put his finger on the word
'Evelina,' and saying _she knew what it was_, bade her write down the
name, and send the man to Lowndes', as if for herself. This she did,
and away went William. When William returned, he took the book from
him, and the moment he was gone, opened the first volume—and opened it
upon the _Ode_!"
Prefixed to Evelina was an inscription in verse to the writer's father,
much more remarkable for tenderness of feeling than for poetical merit.
"How great must have been his astonishment at seeing himself so
addressed! Indeed, Charlotte says he looked all amazement, read a line
or two with great eagerness, and then, stopping short, he seemed quite
affected, and the tears started into his eyes. Dear soul! I am sure
they did into mine; nay, I even sobbed as I read the account.
I believe he was obliged to go out before he advanced much further.
But the next day I had a letter from Susan, in which I heard that he
had begun reading it with Lady Hales and Miss Coussmaker, and that
they liked it vastly! Lady Hales spoke of it very innocently, in the
highest terms, declaring she was sure it was written by somebody in
high life, and that it had all the marks of real genius! She added,
'He must be a man of great abilities.'"
Dr. Burney's opinion was expressed with even greater simplicity than
this. From an unbeliever he had been suddenly changed into a worshipper,
and in the first glow of his conversion, he pronounced the new novel to
be the best he had met with, excepting Fielding's, and in some respects
better than _his_! A proselyte himself, he was at once full of schemes
for spreading the knowledge of the true faith. He would begin by telling
Mrs. Thrale, as the centre of a large literary circle. Before he could
broach the subject, he heard his daughter's book celebrated at the
Streatham tea-table. "Madam," cried Dr. Johnson, see-sawing on his
chair, "Mrs. Cholmondeley was talking to me last night of a new novel,
which, she says, has a very uncommon share of merit—'Evelina.' She says
that she has not been so entertained this great while as in reading it,
and that she shall go all over London to discover the author." Mrs.
Cholmondeley was a sister of Peg Woffington, the actress, and had
married Captain Cholmondeley, second son of the Earl of Cholmondeley,
and a nephew of Horace Walpole. Her husband afterwards quitted the army,
and took orders; and at this time the _salon_ of the witty and eccentric
Mrs. Cholmondeley was in high repute. Besides recommending Evelina to
Johnson, she had engaged Burke and Reynolds to get it, and announced her
intention of keeping it on her table the whole summer to make it as
widely known as possible. All this made it necessary for her friend and
rival, Mrs. Thrale, not to be left in the background. There was but one
thing to be done: the lady of Streatham lost no time in procuring and
reading this new success; fell into a rapture over it; bepraised it with
her usual vivacity, and passed it on to Johnson. The great man took to
it immensely. When he had finished one volume, he was as impatient as
Crisp had been for the next, protesting that _he could not get rid of
the rogue_; and his judgment was that there were passages in the book
that might do honour to Richardson. The packet of letters in which this
compliment was transmitted to Fanny reported also that Sir Joshua
Reynolds had forgotten his dinner while engrossed with her story, and
that Burke had sat up all night to finish it; and Dr. Burney added an
enclosure, in which he said: 'Thou hast made thy old father laugh and
cry at thy pleasure.'
If Mrs. Cholmondeley could claim to have introduced Evelina to the
polite world, to Mrs. Thrale fell the distinction of making known its
author. After ratifying the general opinion of the work, Mrs. Thrale
asked, in Burney's presence, whether Mrs. Cholmondeley had yet found out
the writer, 'because,' said the speaker, 'I long to know him of all
things.' This inquiry produced an avowal, which the Doctor had obtained
his daughter's permission to make; and shortly afterwards he appeared at
Chesington to carry her to Streatham, and present her, by appointment,
to the Thrales—and to Dr. Johnson.
Many surprising successes are recorded in the annals of literature; but
there have been few quite like this. Lately the least noticed member of
her father's household, Frances Burney was now elevated far above its
head. Other writers before their rise have been insignificant; the
author of Evelina was despised. Proud and happy man though he was, Dr.
Burney could not at once break off the habit of calling her _poor
Fanny_. "Do you breathe, my dear Fanny?" asks Susan in a letter, after
recounting part of the wonders above mentioned. "It took away my
breath," adds the writer, "and then made me skip about like a mad
creature." "My dearest Susy," responds Fanny, "don't you think there
must be some wager depending among the little curled imps who hover over
us mortals, of how much flummery goes to turn the head of an authoress?
Your last communication very near did my business, for, meeting Mr.
Crisp ere I had composed myself, I 'tipt him such a touch of the
heroics' as he has not seen since the time when I was so much celebrated
for dancing 'Nancy Dawson.'[33] I absolutely longed to treat him with
one of Captain Mirvan's[34] frolics, and to fling his wig out of the
window. I restrained myself, however, from the apprehension that they
would imagine I had a universal spite to that harmless piece of goods,
which I have already been known to treat with no little indignity. He
would fain have discovered the reason of my skittishness; but as I could
not tell it him, I was obliged to assure him it would be lost time to
inquire further into my flights." Refraining from the wig, Fanny darted
out of the room, and, as she tells us elsewhere,[35] performed a sort of
jig round an old mulberry-tree that stood on the lawn before the house.
She related this incident many years afterwards to Sir Walter Scott, who
has recorded it in his journal.[36]
It will be gathered from our last extract that Mr. Crisp was not yet in
possession of the great secret. Fanny dreaded the edge of his criticism,
even more than she had dreaded the chill of her father's contempt. Dr.
Burney arrived at the Hall to fetch away his daughter on the first
Saturday in August, and it was agreed between them that a disclosure
could no longer be deferred. "My dear father," says the Diary, "desired
to take upon himself the communication to my Daddy Crisp, and as it is
now in so many hands that it is possible accident might discover it to
him, I readily consented. Sunday evening, as I was going into my
father's room, I heard him say, 'The variety of characters, the variety
of scenes, and the language—why, she has had very little education but
what she has given herself—less than any of the others!' and Mr. Crisp
exclaimed, 'Wonderful! it's wonderful!' I now found what was going
forward, and therefore deemed it most fitting to decamp. About an hour
after, as I was passing through the hall, I met my Daddy Crisp. His face
was all animation and archness; he doubled his fist at me, and would
have stopped me, but I ran past him into the parlour. Before supper,
however, I again met him, and he would not suffer me to escape; he
caught both my hands, and looked as if he would have looked me through,
and then exclaimed, 'Why, you little hussy, ain't you ashamed to look me
in the face, you 'Evelina,' you! Why, what a dance have you led me about
it! Young friend, indeed! Oh, you little hussy, what tricks have you
served me!' I was obliged to allow of his running on with these gentle
appellations for I know not how long, ere he could sufficiently compose
himself, after his great surprise, to ask or hear any particulars; and
then he broke out every three instants with exclamations of astonishment
at how I had found time to write so much unsuspected, and how and where
I had picked up such various materials; and not a few times did he, with
me, as he had with my father, exclaim, 'Wonderful!' He has since made me
read him all my letters upon this subject. He said Lowndes would have
made an estate, had he given me £1,000 for it, and that he ought not to
have given less. 'You have nothing to do now,' continued he, 'but to
take your pen in hand, for your fame and reputation are made, and any
bookseller will snap at what you write.'"
A day or two after this conversation, Fanny and her father left Liberty
Hall, as Mr. Crisp was pleased to designate his retreat. Arrived at the
verge of our own heroine's entrance into the world, we shall not stop to
discuss the question how far she was entitled to the fame she had so
rapidly won, nor shall we engage in any criticism of the work by which
she had acquired it. We may assent to the admission of an admirer that
the society depicted in Evelina is made up of unreal beings. What else
could be expected from a fiction designed in immature youth, executed,
like patchwork, at intervals, and put together, at last, without advice
from any experienced person? Real or unreal, however, the characters in
the novel were vivid enough to interest strongly those of the writer's
contemporaries who were most familiar with the world and human nature.
In the conversations which we are about to extract will be found
numerous allusions to personages who, though fictitious, are, at any
rate, as substantial for us as most of the talkers, who have long since
passed into the region of shadows. We may leave to Miss Burney the task
of introducing her friends; she mentions the creations of her brain
without a word of explanation, because she knew that the few eyes and
ears for which her Diary was intended were as well acquainted with them
as herself. It therefore devolves on us to indicate the chief actors in
Evelina to our readers. We have the honour to present: Madame Duval,
Evelina's low-bred grandmother from Paris, interlarding her illiterate
English with an incessant _Ma foi!_ and other French interjections;
Captain Mirvan, a fair specimen of the coarse naval officer of that
time;[37] the Branghtons, a vulgar family living on Snow Hill; Mr.
Smith, a Holborn beau, lodging with the Branghtons. Add to these, Lord
Orville, the hero, and Sir Clement Willoughby, the villain of the piece;
Mr. Lovel, a <DW2>; Lady Louisa, a languishing dame of quality; Sir John
Belmont, the heroine's father; M. Du Bois, a Frenchman in attendance on
Madame Duval; and Mr. Macartney, a starving Scotch poet. Of the last
two, the author conferred on the former the maiden name of her
grandmother; on the latter, the maiden-name of her god-mother, Mrs.
Greville.
We will give Fanny's account of her first dinner at Streatham in the
words of her Diary:
"When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my father and me
sit on each side of her. I said that I hoped I did not take Dr.
Johnson's place;—for he had not yet appeared.
'No,' answered Mrs. Thrale, 'he will sit by you, which I am sure will
give him great pleasure.'
Soon after we were seated, this great man entered. I have so true a
veneration for him, that the very sight of him inspires me with
delight and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities to which
he is subject; for he has almost perpetual convulsive movements,
either of his hands, lips, feet, or knees, and sometimes of all
together.
Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place. We had a
noble dinner, and a most elegant dessert. Dr. Johnson, in the middle
of dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what was in some little pies that were
near him.
'Mutton,' answered she; 'so I don't ask you to eat any, because I know
you despise it.'
'No, madam, no,' cried he; 'I despise nothing that is good of its
sort; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by Miss Burney
makes me very proud to-day!'
'Miss Burney,' said Mrs. Thrale, laughing, 'you must take great care
of your heart if Dr. Johnson attacks it; for I assure you he is not
often successless.'
'What's that you say, madam?' cried he; 'are you making mischief
between the young lady and me already?'
A little while after he drank Miss Thrale's health and mine, and then
added:
''Tis a terrible thing that we cannot wish young ladies well without
wishing them to become old women!'
'But some people,' said Mr. Seward, 'are old and young at the same
time, for they wear so well that they never look old.'
'No, sir, no,' cried the doctor, laughing; 'that never yet was; you
might as well say they are at the same time tall and short. I remember
an epitaph to that purpose, which is in——'
(I have quite forgot what,—and also the name it was made upon, but the
rest I recollect exactly:)
'—— lies buried here;
So early wise, so lasting fair,
That none, unless her years you told,
Thought her a child, or thought her old.'
Mrs. Thrale then repeated some lines in French, and Dr. Johnson some
more in Latin. An epilogue of Mr. Garrick's to 'Bonduca' was then
mentioned, and Dr. Johnson said it was a miserable performance, and
everybody agreed it was the worst he had ever made.
'And yet,' said Mr. Seward, 'it has been very much admired: but it is
in praise of English valour, and so I suppose the subject made it
popular.'
'I don't know, sir,' said Dr. Johnson, 'anything about the subject,
for I could not read on till I came to it; I got through half a dozen
lines, but I could observe no other subject than eternal dulness. I
don't know what is the matter with David; I am afraid he is grown
superannuated, for his prologues and epilogues used to be
incomparable.'
'Nothing is so fatiguing,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'as the life of a wit; he
and Wilkes are the two oldest men of their ages I know, for they have
both worn themselves out by being eternally on the rack to give
entertainment to others.'
'David, madam,' said the doctor, 'looks much older than he is; for his
face has had double the business of any other man's; it is never at
rest; when he speaks one minute, he has quite a different countenance
to what he assumes the next. I don't believe he ever kept the same
look for half an hour together in the whole course of his life; and
such an eternal, restless, fatiguing play of the muscles must
certainly wear out a man's face before its real time.'
'O yes,' cried Mrs. Thrale; 'we must certainly make some allowance for
such wear and tear of a man's face.'
The next name that was started was that of Sir John Hawkins, and Mrs.
Thrale said:
'Why now, Dr. Johnson, he is another of those whom you suffer nobody
to abuse but yourself; Garrick is one, too; for if any other person
speaks against him, you browbeat him in a minute!'
'Why, madam,' answered he, 'they don't know when to abuse him, and
when to praise him; I will allow no man to speak ill of David that he
does not deserve; and as to Sir John, why really I believe him to be
an honest man at the bottom: but to be sure he is penurious, and he is
mean, and it must be owned he has a degree of brutality, and a
tendency to savageness, that cannot easily be defended.'
We all laughed, as he meant we should, at this curious manner of
speaking in his favour, and he then related an anecdote that he said
he knew to be true in regard to his meanness. He said that Sir John
and he once belonged to the same club, but that as he ate no supper
after the first night of his admission, he desired to be excused
paying his share.
'And was he excused?'
'O yes; for no man is angry at another for being inferior to himself!
we all scorned him, and admitted his plea. For my part, I was such a
fool as to pay my share for wine, though I never tasted any. But Sir
John was a most _unclubbable_ man!'
'And this,' continued he, 'reminds me of a gentleman and lady with
whom I travelled once; I suppose I must call them gentleman and lady,
according to form, because they travelled in their own coach and four
horses. But at the first inn where we stopped, the lady called for—a
pint of ale! and when it came, quarrelled with the waiter for not
giving full measure. Now, Madame Duval could not have done a grosser
thing.'
Oh, how everybody laughed! and to be sure I did not glow at all, nor
munch fast, nor look on my plate, nor lose any part of my usual
composure! But how grateful do I feel to this dear Dr. Johnson, for
never naming me and the book as belonging one to the other, and yet
making an allusion that showed his thoughts led to it, and, at the
same time, that seemed to justify the character as being natural! But,
indeed, the delicacy I met with from him, and from all the Thrales,
was yet more flattering to me than the praise with which I have heard
they have honoured my book.
After dinner, when Mrs. Thrale and I left the gentlemen, we had a
conversation that to me could not but be delightful, as she was all
good-humour, spirits, sense, and _agreeability_. Surely I may make
words, when at a loss, if Dr. Johnson does.
We left Streatham at about eight o'clock, and Mr. Seward, who handed
me into the chaise, added his interest to the rest, that my father
would not fail to bring me again next week to stay with them for some
time. In short, I was loaded with civilities from them all. And my
ride home was equally happy with the rest of the day, for my kind and
most beloved father was so happy in _my_ happiness, and congratulated
me so sweetly, that he could, like myself, think on no other subject.
Yet my honours stopped not here; for Hetty, who, with her _sposo_, was
here to receive us, told me she had lately met Mrs. Reynolds, sister
of Sir Joshua; and that she talked very much and very highly of a new
novel called 'Evelina;' though without a shadow of suspicion as to the
scribbler....
Sir Joshua, it seems, vows he would give fifty pounds to know the
author! I have also heard, by the means of Charles, that other persons
have declared they _will_ find him out!
This intelligence determined me upon going myself to Mr. Lowndes, and
discovering what sort of answers he made to such curious inquirers as
I found were likely to address him. But as I did not dare trust myself
to speak, for I felt that I should not be able to act my part well, I
asked my mother to accompany me.
We introduced ourselves by buying the book, for which I had a
commission from Mrs. G——. Fortunately Mr. Lowndes himself was in the
shop; as we found by his air of consequence and authority, as well as
his age; for I never saw him before.
The moment he had given my mother the book, she asked if he could tell
her who wrote it.
'No,' he answered: 'I don't know myself.'
'Pho, pho,' said she; 'you mayn't choose to tell, but you must know.'
'I don't, indeed, ma'am,' answered he; 'I have no honour in keeping
the secret, for I have never been trusted. All I know of the matter
is, that it is a gentleman of the other end of the town.'
My mother made a thousand other inquiries, to which his answers were
to the following effect: that for a great while, he did not know if it
was a man or a woman; but now, he knew that much, and that he was a
master of his subject, and well versed in the manners of the times."
A few days after this, Mrs. Thrale called in St. Martin's Street, and
carried her new acquaintance down to Streatham:
"At night, Mrs. Thrale asked if I would have anything? I answered,
'No;' but Dr. Johnson said,—
'Yes: she is used, madam, to suppers; she would like an egg or two,
and a few slices of ham, or a rasher—a rasher, I believe, would please
her better.'
How ridiculous! However, nothing could persuade Mrs. Thrale not to
have the cloth laid; and Dr. Johnson was so facetious, that he
challenged Mr. Thrale to get drunk!
'I wish,' said he, 'my master would say to me, Johnson, if you will
oblige me, you will call for a bottle of Toulon, and then we will set
to it, glass for glass, till it is done; and after that I will say,
Thrale, if you will oblige me, you will call for another bottle of
Toulon, and then we will set to it, glass for glass, till that is
done: and by the time we should have drunk the two bottles we should
be so happy, and such good friends, that we should fly into each
other's arms, and both together call for the third!'
I ate nothing, that they might not again use such a ceremony with me.
Indeed, their late dinners forbid suppers, especially as Dr. Johnson
made me eat cake at tea; for he held it till I took it, with an odd or
absent complaisance.
He was extremely comical after supper, and would not suffer Mrs.
Thrale and me to go to bed for near an hour after we made the
motion....
Now for this morning's breakfast.
Dr. Johnson, as usual, came last into the library; he was in high
spirits, and full of mirth and sport. I had the honour of sitting next
to him: and now, all at once, he flung aside his reserve, thinking,
perhaps, that it was time I should fling aside mine.
Mrs. Thrale told him that she intended taking me to Mr. T——'s.
'So you ought, madam,' cried he; ''tis your business to be cicerone to
her.'
Then suddenly he snatched my hand, and kissing it,
'Ah!' he added, 'they will little think what a tartar you carry to
them!'
'No, that they won't!' cried Mrs. Thrale; 'Miss Burney looks so meek
and so quiet, nobody would suspect what a comical girl she is; but I
believe she has a great deal of malice at heart.'
'Oh, she's a toad!' cried the doctor, laughing—'a sly young rogue!
with her Smiths and her Branghtons!'
'Why, Dr. Johnson,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'I hope you are very well this
morning! If one may judge by your spirits and good-humour, the fever
you threatened us with is gone off.'
He had complained that he was going to be ill last night.
'Why, no, madam, no,' answered he, 'I am not yet well; I could not
sleep at all; there I lay, restless and uneasy, and thinking all the
time of Miss Burney. Perhaps I have offended her, thought I; perhaps
she is angry; I have seen her but once, and I talked to her of a
rasher!—Were you angry?'
I think I need not tell you my answer.
'I have been endeavouring to find some excuse,' continued he, 'and, as
I could not sleep, I got up, and looked for some authority for the
word; and I find, madam, it is used by Dryden: in one of his prologues
he says—"And snatch a homely rasher from the coals." So you must not
mind me, madam; I say strange things, but I mean no harm.'
I was almost afraid he thought I was really idiot enough to have taken
him seriously; but, a few minutes after, he put his hand on my arm,
and shaking his head, exclaimed:
'Oh, you are a sly little rogue!—what a Holborn beau have you drawn!'
'Ay, Miss Burney,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'the Holborn beau is Dr.
Johnson's favourite; and we have all your characters by heart, from
Mr. Smith up to Lady Louisa.'
'Oh, Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith is the man!' cried he, laughing violently.
'Harry Fielding never drew so good a character!—such a fine varnish of
low politeness!—such a struggle to appear a gentleman! Madam, there is
no character better drawn anywhere—in any book, or by any author.'
I almost poked myself under the table. Never did I feel so delicious a
confusion since I was born! But he added a great deal more, only I
cannot recollect his exact words, and I do not choose to give him
mine.
'Come, come,' cried Mrs. Thrale, 'we'll torment her no more about her
book, for I see it really plagues her. I own I thought for awhile it
was only affectation, for I'm sure if the book were mine I should wish
to hear of nothing else. But we shall teach her in time how proud she
ought to be of such a performance.'
'Ah, madam,' cried the Doctor, 'be in no haste to teach her that;
she'll speak no more to us when she knows her own weight.'...
Some time after the Doctor began laughing to himself, and then,
suddenly turning to me, he called out, 'Only think, Polly! Miss has
danced with a lord!'
'Ah, poor Evelina!' cried Mrs. Thrale, 'I see her now in Kensington
Gardens. What she must have suffered! Poor girl! what fidgets she must
have been in! And I know Mr. Smith, too, very well; I always have him
before me at the Hampstead Ball, dressed in a white coat, and a
tambour waistcoat, worked in green silk. Poor Mr. Seward! Mr. Johnson
made him so mad t'other day! "Why, Seward," said he, "how smart you
are dressed! Why you only want a tambour waistcoat, to look like Mr.
Smith!" But I am very fond of Lady Louisa. I think her as well drawn
as any character in the book—so fine, so affected, so languishing,
and, at the same time, so insolent!...
As I have always heard from my father that every individual at
Streatham spends the morning alone, I took the first opportunity of
absconding to my own room, and amused myself in writing till I tired.
About noon, when I went into the library, book-hunting, Mrs. Thrale
came to me.
We had a very nice confab about various books, and exchanged opinions
and imitations of Baretti; she told me many excellent tales of him,
and I, in return, related my stories.
She gave me a long and very interesting account of Dr. Goldsmith, who
was intimately known here; but in speaking of 'The Good-natured Man,'
when I extolled my favourite Croaker, I found that admirable character
was a downright theft from Dr. Johnson. Look at the 'Rambler,' and you
will find Suspirius is the man, and that not merely the idea, but the
particulars of the character are all stolen thence![38]
While we were yet reading this 'Rambler,' Dr. Johnson came in: we told
him what we were about.
'Ah, madam!' cried he, 'Goldsmith was not scrupulous; but he would
have been a great man had he known the real value of his own internal
resources.'
'Miss Burney,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'is fond of his "Vicar of Wakefield,"
and so am I; don't you like it, sir?'
'No, madam; it is very faulty. There is nothing of real life in it,
and very little of nature. It is a mere fanciful performance.'
He then seated himself upon a sofa, and calling to me, said: 'Come,
Evelina—come, and sit by me.'
I obeyed, and he took me almost in his arms—that is, one of his arms,
for one would go three times, at least, round me—and, half-laughing,
half-serious, he charged me to 'be a good girl.'
'But, my dear,' continued he with a very droll look, 'what makes you
so fond of the Scotch? I don't like you for that; I hate these Scotch,
and so must you. I wish Branghton had sent the dog to jail—that Scotch
dog, Macartney!'
'Why, sir,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'don't you remember he says he would,
but that he should get nothing by it?'
'Why, ay, true,' cried the Doctor, see-sawing very solemnly, 'that,
indeed, is some palliation for his forbearance. But I must not have
you so fond of the Scotch, my little Burney; make your hero what you
will but a Scotchman. Besides, you write Scotch—you say, "the one." My
dear, that's not English—never use that phrase again.'
'Perhaps,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'it may be used in Macartney's letter,
and then it will be a propriety.'
'No, madam, no!' cried he; 'you can't make a beauty of it; it is in
the third volume; put it in Macartney's letter, and welcome!—that, or
anything that is nonsense.'
'Why, surely,' cried I, 'the poor man is used ill enough by the
Branghtons!'
'But Branghton,' said he, 'only hates him because of his wretchedness,
poor fellow! But, my dear love, how should he ever have eaten a good
dinner before he came to England?'
And then he laughed violently at young Branghton's idea.
'Well,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'I always liked Macartney; he is a very
pretty character, and I took to him, as the folks say.'
'Why, madam,' answered he, 'I liked Macartney myself. Yes, poor
fellow, I liked the man, but I love not the nation.'"
Miss Burney's visit on this occasion lasted several days, and it was
speedily followed by another and another. Mrs. Thrale, having discovered
a fresh attraction for her country house, hastened to turn it to the
best account. The friendship between her and the new authoress developed
with the rapid growth peculiar to feminine attachments. And Fanny
enjoyed her life at Streatham. Dr. Johnson was nearly always there; she
liked the family; and the opulent establishment, with its well-kept
gardens, hot-houses, shrubberies, and paddock, had all the charm of
novelty to a young woman, whose time had long been divided between the
smoky atmosphere of Leicester Fields and the desolation of Liberty Hall.
The great Doctor, whose affection for her increased daily, took an early
opportunity of saying to her: 'These are as good people as you can be
with; you can go to no better house; they are all good-nature; nothing
makes them angry.' She found no cause to complain of Mr. Thrale's curt
speech, or the eldest daughter's cold manner, or the roughness of Ursa
Major, though she has reported Mrs. Thrale's quick answer to Johnson
when he asked the motive of his hostess's excessive complaisance: 'Why,
I'll tell you, sir; when I am with you, and Mr. Thrale, and Queeny, I am
obliged to be civil for four.'
If Mrs. Thrale engrossed a large share of her novice's time this autumn,
she took pains to make her talk a little in company, and prepared her,
in some degree, for the ordeal that awaited her during the ensuing
winter in London. Numerous visitors were invited to Streatham to become
acquainted with the timid young writer, who, though accustomed to
society, had never yet learned to make her voice heard in a circle of
listeners. One afternoon Sir Joshua Reynolds and his nieces came down,
and on their arrival, the conversation being turned to the subject of
Evelina, they were informed that they should meet the author at dinner.
After a good deal of guessing, the suspicions of the guests settled on
the lady of the house, who sportively assumed a conscious air, but
before the close of the day, the secret was allowed to transpire, and
when the party broke up, Sir Joshua, approaching Miss Burney, with his
most courtly bow, hoped that as soon as she left Streatham he should
have the honour of seeing her in Leicester Square.
"The joke is," writes Fanny, "the people speak as if they were afraid of
me, instead of my being afraid of them.... Next morning, Mrs. Thrale
asked me if I did not want to see Mrs. Montagu? I truly said, I should
be the most insensible of animals not to like to see our sex's glory." A
note was despatched accordingly, and the glory of her sex graciously
accepted. On hearing of this, "Dr. Johnson began to see-saw, with a
countenance strongly expressive of inward fun, and after enjoying it
some time in silence, he suddenly, and with great animation, turned to
me, and cried: 'Down with her, Burney!—down with her!—spare her not!—
attack her, fight her, and down with her at once! You are a rising wit,
and she is at the top; and when I was beginning the world, and was
nothing and nobody, the joy of my life was to fire at all the
established wits! and then everybody loved to halloo me on. But there is
no game now; everybody would be glad to see me conquered: but then, when
I was new, to vanquish the great ones was all the delight of my poor
little dear soul! So at her, Burney—at her, and down with her.'" The
Queen of the Blue Stockings arrived, attended by her companion, a Miss
Gregory; and the usual presentation and disclosure took place. Fanny, of
course, had not much to say for herself, but the observant eyes were
busy as usual. This is their report of Mrs. Montagu; "She is
middle-sized, very thin, and looks infirm; she has a sensible and
penetrating countenance, and the air and manner of a woman accustomed to
being distinguished, and of great parts. Dr. Johnson, who agrees in
this, told us that Mrs. Hervey, of his acquaintance, says she can
remember Mrs. Montagu _trying_ for this same air and manner. Mr. Crisp
has said the same: however, nobody can now impartially see her, and not
confess that she has extremely well succeeded." When dinner was upon
table, the observer followed the procession, in a tragedy step, as Mr.
Thrale would have it, into the dining-room. The conversation was not
brilliant, nor is much of it recorded. When Mrs. Montagu's new house[39]
was talked of, Dr. Johnson, in a jocose manner, desired to know if he
should be invited to see it. 'Ay, sure,' cried Mrs. Montagu, looking
well pleased; 'or else I shan't like it: but I invite you all to a
house-warming; I shall hope for the honour of seeing all this company at
my new house next Easter-day: I fix the day now that it may be
remembered.' "Dr. Johnson," adds Fanny, "who sat next to me, was
determined I should be of the party, for he suddenly clapped his hand on
my shoulder, and called out aloud: 'Little Burney, you and I will go
together.' 'Yes, surely,' cried Mrs. Montagu, 'I shall hope for the
pleasure of seeing Evelina.'"
It was at Streatham shortly afterwards that Miss Burney made her first
acquaintance with James Boswell. We do not get our account of this
meeting direct from the Diary, and have to take it as it stands in the
Memoirs, dressed up by the pen of the aged Madame d'Arblay. Boswell, we
are told, had a strong Scotch accent, though by no means strong enough
to make him unintelligible to an English ear. He had an odd mock
solemnity of tone and manner that he had acquired unconsciously from
constantly thinking of, and imitating, Johnson. There was also something
slouching in the gait and dress of Mr. Boswell that ridiculously
caricatured the same model. His clothes were always too large for him;
his hair, or wig, was constantly in a state of negligence; and he never
for a moment sat still or upright in his chair. Every look and movement
betrayed either intentional or involuntary imitation:
"As Mr. Boswell was at Streatham only upon a morning visit, a
collation was ordered, to which all were assembled. Mr. Boswell was
preparing to take a seat that he seemed, by prescription, to consider
as his own, next to Dr. Johnson; but Mr. Seward, who was present,
waved his hand for Mr. Boswell to move farther on, saying with a
smile:
"'Mr. Boswell, that seat is Miss Burney's.'
"He stared, amazed: the asserted claimant was new and unknown to him,
and he appeared by no means pleased to resign his prior rights. But
after looking round for a minute or two, with an important air of
demanding the meaning of the innovation, and receiving no
satisfaction, he reluctantly, almost resentfully, got another chair,
and placed it at the back of the shoulder of Dr. Johnson; while this
new and unheard-of rival quietly seated herself as if not hearing what
was passing, for she shrank from the explanation that she feared might
ensue, as she saw a smile stealing over every countenance, that of Dr.
Johnson himself not excepted, at the discomfiture and surprise of Mr.
Boswell.
"Mr. Boswell, however, was so situated as not to remark it in the
Doctor; and of everyone else, when in that presence, he was
unobservant, if not contemptuous. In truth, when he met with Dr.
Johnson, he commonly forbore even answering anything that went
forward, lest he should miss the smallest sound from that voice to
which he paid such exclusive, though merited, homage. But the moment
that voice burst forth, the attention which it excited in Mr. Boswell
amounted almost to pain. His eyes goggled with eagerness; he leant his
ear almost on the shoulder of the Doctor; and his mouth dropped open
to catch every syllable that might be uttered: nay, he seemed not only
to dread losing a word, but to be anxious not to miss a breathing; as
if hoping from it, latently or mystically, some information.
"But when, in a few minutes, Dr. Johnson, whose eye did not follow
him, and who had concluded him to be at the other end of the table,
said something gaily and good-humouredly, by the appellation of Bozzy,
and discovered, by the sound of the reply, that Bozzy had planted
himself, as closely as he could, behind and between the elbows of the
new usurper and his own, the Doctor turned angrily round upon him,
and, clapping his hand rather loudly upon his knee, said, in a tone of
displeasure: 'What do you do there, sir?—Go to the table, sir!'
"Mr. Boswell instantly, and with an air of affright, obeyed; and there
was something so unusual in such humble submission to so imperious a
command, that another smile gleamed its way across every mouth, except
that of the Doctor and of Mr. Boswell, who now, very unwillingly, took
a distant seat.
"But, ever restless when not at the side of Dr. Johnson, he presently
recollected something that he wished to exhibit; and, hastily rising,
was running away in its search, when the Doctor, calling after him,
authoritatively said: 'What are you thinking of, sir? Why do you get
up before the cloth is removed?—Come back to your place, sir!'
"Again, and with equal obsequiousness, Mr. Boswell did as he was bid;
when the Doctor, pursing his lips not to betray rising risibility,
muttered half to himself: 'Running about in the middle of meals! One
would take you for a Branghton!'
"'A Branghton, sir?' repeated Mr. Boswell, with earnestness; 'what is
a Branghton, sir?'
"'Where have you lived, sir?' cried the Doctor, laughing; 'and what
company have you kept, not to know that?'
"Mr. Boswell now, doubly curious, yet always apprehensive of falling
into some disgrace with Dr. Johnson, said, in a low tone, which he
knew the Doctor could not hear, to Mrs. Thrale: 'Pray, ma'am, what's a
Branghton? Do me the favour to tell me! Is it some animal hereabouts?'
"Mrs. Thrale only heartily laughed, but without answering, as she saw
one of her guests uneasily fearful of an explanation. But Mr. Seward
cried: 'I'll tell you, Boswell—I'll tell you!—if you will walk with me
into the paddock; only let us wait till the table is cleared, or I
shall be taken for a Branghton, too!'
"They soon went off together; and Mr. Boswell, no doubt, was fully
informed of the road that had led to the usurpation by which he had
thus been annoyed. But the Branghton fabricator took care to mount to
her chamber ere they returned, and did not come down till Mr. Boswell
was gone."
The following December and January Miss Burney spent at home. She paid
her promised visit to Sir Joshua Reynolds:
"We found the Miss Palmers alone. We were, for near an hour, quite
easy, chatty, and comfortable; no pointed speech was made, and no
starer entered.
"Just then, Mrs. and Miss Horneck were announced....
"Mrs. Horneck, as I found in the course of the evening, is an
exceeding sensible, well-bred woman.[40] Her daughter is very
beautiful; but was low-spirited and silent during the whole visit. She
was, indeed, very unhappy, as Miss Palmer informed me, upon account of
some ill news she had lately heard of the affairs of a gentleman to
whom she is shortly to be married.
"Not long after came a whole troop, consisting of Mr. Cholmondeley!—O
perilous name!—Miss Cholmondeley, and Miss Fanny Cholmondeley, his
daughters, and Miss Forrest. Mrs. Cholmondeley, I found, was engaged
elsewhere, but soon expected.
"Now here was a trick of Sir Joshua, to make me meet all these people!
"Mr. Cholmondeley is a clergyman; nothing shining either in person or
manners, but rather somewhat grim in the first, and glum in the last.
Yet he appears to have humour himself, and to enjoy it much in
others....
"Next came my father, all gaiety and spirits. Then Mr. William Burke.
Soon after, Sir Joshua returned home. He paid his compliments to
everybody, and then brought a chair next mine, and said:
"'So you were afraid to come among us?'
"I don't know if I wrote to you a speech to that purpose, which I made
to the Miss Palmers? and which, I suppose, they had repeated to him.
He went on, saying I might as well fear hobgoblins, and that I had
only to hold up my head to be above them all.
"After this address, his behaviour was exactly what my wishes would
have dictated to him, for my own ease and quietness; for he never once
even alluded to my book, but conversed rationally, gaily, and
serenely: and so I became more comfortable than I had been ever since
the first entrance of company....
"Our confab was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. King; a gentleman
who is, it seems, for ever with the Burkes; and presently Lord
Palmerston[41] was announced.
"Well, while this was going forward, a violent rapping bespoke, I was
sure, Mrs. Cholmondeley, and I ran from the standers, and turning my
back against the door, looked over Miss Palmer's cards; for you may
well imagine I was really in a tremor at a meeting which so long has
been in agitation, and with the person who, of all persons, has been
most warm and enthusiastic for my book.
"She had not, however, been in the room half an instant, ere my father
came up to me, and tapping me on the shoulder, said, 'Fanny, here's a
lady who wishes to speak to you.'
"I curtseyed in silence; she too curtseyed, and fixed her eyes full on
my face, and then tapping me with her fan, she cried:
"'Come, come, you must not look grave upon me.'
"Upon this, I te-he'd; she now looked at me yet more earnestly, and,
after an odd silence, said, abruptly:
"'But is it true?'
"'What, ma'am?'
"'It can't be!—tell me, though, is it true?'
"I could only simper.
"'Why don't you tell me?—but it can't be—I don't believe it!—no, you
are an impostor!'
"Sir Joshua and Lord Palmerston were both at her side—oh, how notably
silly must I look! She again repeated her question of 'Is it true?'
and I again affected not to understand her; and then Sir Joshua,
taking hold of her arm, attempted to pull her away, saying:
"'Come, come, Mrs. Cholmondeley, I won't have her overpowered here!'
"I love Sir Joshua much for this. But Mrs. Cholmondeley, turning to
him, said, with quickness and vehemence:
"'Why, I ain't going to kill her! don't be afraid, I shan't compliment
her!—I can't, indeed!'"
Then came a scene in which Mrs. Cholmondeley pursued Fanny across the
room, hunted her round the card-table, and finally drove her to take
refuge behind a sofa, continually plying her with questions, and
receiving her confused replies with exclamations of _Ma foi! pardie!_
and other phrases borrowed from Madame Duval. At length:
"_Mrs. Chol._: My Lord Palmerston, I was told to-night that nobody
could see your lordship for me, for that you supped at my house every
night! Dear, bless me, no! cried I, not every night! and I looked as
confused as I was able; but I am afraid I did not blush, though I
tried hard for it!
"Then again turning to me:
"'That Mr. What-d'ye-call-him, in Fleet Street, is a mighty silly
fellow;—perhaps you don't know who I mean?—one T. Lowndes,—but maybe
you don't know such a person?'
"_F. B._: No, indeed, I do not!—that I can safely say.
"_Mrs. Chol._: I could get nothing from him: but I told him I hoped he
gave a good price: and he answered me, that he always did things
genteel. What trouble and tagging we had! Mr. —— laid a wager the
writer was a man:—I said I was sure it was a woman: but now we are
both out; for it's a girl!
"In this comical, queer, flighty, whimsical manner she ran on, till we
were summoned to supper....
"When we broke up to depart, which was not till near two in the
morning, Mrs. Cholmondeley went up to my mother, and begged her
permission to visit in St. Martin's Street. Then, as she left the
room, she said to me, with a droll sort of threatening look:
"'You have not got rid of me yet: I have been forcing myself into your
house.'
"I must own I was not at all displeased at this, as I had very much
and very reasonably feared that she would have been by then as sick of
me from disappointment, as she was before eager for me from curiosity.
"When we came away, Offy Palmer, laughing, said to me:
"'I think this will be a breaking-in to you!'"
We have next a visit to the house of the persecutor:
"On Monday last, my father sent a note to Mrs. Cholmondeley, to
propose our waiting on her the Wednesday following: she accepted the
proposal, and accordingly, on Wednesday evening, my father, mother,
and self went to Hertford Street.
"I should have told you that Mrs. Cholmondeley, when my father some
time ago called on her, sent me a message, that if I would go to see
her, I should not again be stared at or worried; and she acknowledged
that my visit at Sir Joshua's was a formidable one, and that I was
watched the whole evening; but that upon the whole, the company
behaved extremely well, for they only ogled!
"Well, we were received by Mrs. Cholmondeley with great politeness,
and in a manner that showed she intended to entirely throw aside
Madame Duval, and to conduct herself towards me in a new style.
"Mr. and the Misses Cholmondeley and Miss Forrest were with her; but
who else think you?—why, Mrs. Sheridan! I was absolutely charmed at
the sight of her. I think her quite as beautiful as ever, and even
more captivating; for she has now a look of ease and happiness that
animates her whole face.
"Miss Linley was with her; she is very handsome, but nothing near her
sister: the elegance of Mrs. Sheridan's beauty is unequalled by any I
ever saw, except Mrs. Crewe.[42] I was pleased with her in all
respects. She is much more lively and agreeable than I had any idea of
finding her: she was very gay, and very unaffected, and totally free
from airs of any kind.
"Miss Linley was very much out of spirits; she did not speak three
words the whole evening, and looked wholly unmoved at all that passed.
Indeed, she appeared to be heavy and inanimate.
"Mrs. Cholmondeley sat next me. She is determined, I believe, to make
me like her: and she will, I believe, have full success; for she is
very clever, very entertaining, and very much unlike anybody else.
"The first subject started was the Opera, and all joined in the praise
of Pacchierotti. Mrs. Sheridan declared she could not hear him without
tears, and that he was the first Italian singer who ever affected her
to such a degree.
"They then talked of the intended marriage of the Duke of Dorset with
Miss Cumberland, and many ridiculous anecdotes were related. The
conversation naturally fell upon Mr. Cumberland, and he was finely cut
up!
"'What a man is that!' said Mrs. Cholmondeley; 'I cannot bear him—so
querulous, so dissatisfied, so determined to like nobody and nothing
but himself!'
"'What, Mr. Cumberland?' exclaimed I.
"'Yes,' answered she; 'I hope you don't like him?'
"'I don't know him, ma'am. I have only seen him once, at Mrs. Ord's.'
"'Oh, don't like him for your life! I charge you not! I hope you did
not like his looks?'
"'Why,' quoth I, laughing, 'I went prepared and determined to like
him; but perhaps, when I see him next, I may go prepared for the
contrary.'
"A rat-tat-tat-tat ensued, and the Earl of Harcourt was announced.
When he had paid his compliments to Mrs. Cholmondeley—
"'I knew, ma'am,' he said, 'that I should find you at home.'
"'I suppose then, my lord,' said she, 'that you have seen Sir Joshua
Reynolds; for he is engaged to be here.'
"'I have,' answered his lordship; 'and heard from him that I should be
sure to find you.'
"And then he added some very fine compliment, but I have forgot it.
"'Oh, my lord,' cried she, 'you have the most discernment of anybody!
His lordship (turning another way) always says these things to me, and
yet he never flatters.'
"Lord Harcourt, speaking of the lady from whose house he was just
come, said:
"'Mrs. Vesey[43] is vastly agreeable, but her fear of ceremony is
really troublesome: for her eagerness to break a circle is such, that
she insists upon everybody's sitting with their backs one to another;
that is, the chairs are drawn into little parties of three together,
in a confused manner, all over the room.'
"'Why, then,' said my father, 'they may have the pleasure of caballing
and cutting up one another, even in the same room.'
"'Oh, I like the notion of all things,' cried Mrs. Cholmondeley; 'I
shall certainly adopt it!'
"And then she drew her chair into the middle of our circle. Lord
Harcourt turned his round, and his back to most of us, and my father
did the same. You can't imagine a more absurd sight.
"Just then the door opened, and Mr. Sheridan entered.
"Was I not in luck? Not that I believe the meeting was accidental; but
I had more wished to meet him and his wife than any people I know not.
"I could not endure my ridiculous situation, but replaced myself in an
orderly manner immediately. Mr. Sheridan stared at them all, and Mrs.
Cholmondeley said she intended it as a hint for a comedy.
"Mr. Sheridan has a very fine figure, and a good, though I don't think
a handsome, face. He is tall, and very upright, and his appearance and
address are at once manly and fashionable, without the smallest
tincture of foppery or modish graces. In short, I like him vastly, and
think him every way worthy his beautiful companion.
"And let me tell you what I know will give you as much pleasure as it
gave me—that, by all I could observe in the course of the evening, and
we stayed very late, they are extremely happy in each other: he
evidently adores her, and she as evidently idolizes him. The world has
by no means done him justice.
"When he had paid his compliments to all his acquaintance, he went
behind the sofa on which Mrs. Sheridan and Miss Cholmondeley were
seated, and entered into earnest conversation with them.
"Upon Lord Harcourt's again paying Mrs. Cholmondeley some compliment,
she said:
"'Well, my lord, after this I shall be quite sublime for some days! I
shan't descend into common life till—till Saturday, and then I shall
drop into the vulgar style—I shall be in the _ma foi_ way.
"I do really believe she could not resist this, for she had seemed
determined to be quiet.
"When next there was a rat-tat, Mrs. Cholmondeley and Lord Harcourt,
and my father again, at the command of the former, moved into the
middle of the room, and then Sir Joshua Reynolds and Dr. Warton
entered.
"No further company came. You may imagine there was a general roar at
the breaking of the circle, and when they got into order, Mr. Sheridan
seated himself in the place Mrs. Cholmondeley had left, between my
father and myself.
"And now I must tell you a little conversation which I did not hear
myself till I came home; it was between Mr. Sheridan and my father.
"'Dr. Burney,' cried the former, 'have you no older daughters? Can
this possibly be the authoress of 'Evelina'?'
"And then he said abundance of fine things, and begged my father to
introduce him to me.
"'Why, it will be a very formidable thing to her,' answered he, 'to be
introduced to you.'
"'Well, then, by-and-by,' returned he.
"Some time after this, my eyes happening to meet his, he waived the
ceremony of introduction, and in a low voice said:
"'I have been telling Dr. Burney that I have long expected to see in
Miss Burney a lady of the gravest appearance, with the quickest
parts.'
"I was never much more astonished than at this unexpected address, as
among all my numerous puffers the name of Sheridan has never reached
me, and I did really imagine he had never deigned to look at my trash.
"Of course I could make no verbal answer, and he proceeded then to
speak of 'Evelina' in terms of the highest praise; but I was in such a
ferment from surprise (not to say pleasure), that I have no
recollection of his expressions. I only remember telling him that I
was much amazed he had spared time to read it, and that he repeatedly
called it a most surprising book; and some time after he added: 'But I
hope, Miss Burney, you don't intend to throw away your pen?'
"'You should take care, sir,' said I, 'what you say: for you know not
what weight it may have.'
"He wished it might have any, he said; and soon after turned again to
my father.
"I protest, since the approbation of the Streathamites, I have met
with none so flattering to me as this of Mr. Sheridan, and so very
unexpected....
"Some time after, Sir Joshua returning to his standing-place, entered
into confab with Miss Linley and your slave, upon various matters,
during which Mr. Sheridan, joining us, said:
"'Sir Joshua, I have been telling Miss Burney that she must not suffer
her pen to lie idle—ought she?'
"_Sir Joshua_: No, indeed, ought she not.
"_Mr. Sheridan_: Do you then, Sir Joshua, persuade her. But perhaps
you have begun something? May we ask? Will you answer a question
candidly?
"_F. B._: I don't know, but as candidly as _Mrs. Candour_ I think I
certainly shall.
"_Mr. Sheridan_: What then are you about now?
"_F. B._: Why, twirling my fan, I think!
"_Mr. Sheridan_: No, no; but what are you about at home? However, it
is not a fair question, so I won't press it.
"Yet he looked very inquisitive; but I was glad to get off without any
downright answer.
"_Sir Joshua_: Anything in the dialogue way, I think, she must succeed
in; and I am sure invention will not be wanting.
"_Mr. Sheridan_: No, indeed; I think, and say, she should write a
comedy.
"_Sir Joshua_: I am sure I think so; and hope she will.
"I could only answer by incredulous exclamations.
"'Consider,' continued Sir Joshua, 'you have already had all the
applause and fame you can have given you in the closet; but the
acclamation of a theatre will be new to you.'
"And then he put down his trumpet, and began a violent clapping of his
hands.
"I actually shook from head to foot! I felt myself already in Drury
Lane, amidst the hubbub of a first night.
"'Oh no!' cried I; 'there may be a noise, but it will be just the
reverse.' And I returned his salute with a hissing.
"Mr. Sheridan joined Sir Joshua very warmly.
"'Oh, sir!' cried I; 'you should not run on so—you don't know what
mischief you may do!'
"_Mr. Sheridan_: I wish I may—I shall be very glad to be accessory."
We gather from the remarks made by Mrs. Cholmondeley and Sheridan in the
preceding extracts that Miss Burney at this time looked much younger
than she really was. With her low stature, slight figure, and timid air,
she did not seem quite the woman. Probably this youthful appearance may
have helped to set afloat the rumour which confounded the age of her
heroine with her own. An unmarried lady of six-and-twenty could hardly
be expected to enter a formal plea of not guilty to the charge of being
only a girl; yet we shall see presently that Mrs. Thrale was pretty well
informed as to the number of Fanny's years.
Some readers may be tempted to think that, with all her coyness, she was
enraptured by the pursuit of her admirers. This is only to say that she
was a woman. We must remember, moreover, that the Diary which betrays
her feelings was not written with any design of publication, but
consisted of private letters, addressed chiefly to her sister Susan, and
intended to be shown to no one out of her own family, save her attached
Daddy Crisp. 'If,' says Macaulay very fairly, 'she recorded with minute
diligence all the compliments, delicate and coarse, which she heard
wherever she turned, she recorded them for the eyes of two or three
persons who had loved her from infancy, who had loved her in obscurity,
and to whom her fame gave the purest and most exquisite delight. Nothing
can be more unjust than to confound these outpourings of a kind heart,
sure of perfect sympathy, with the egotism of a blue stocking, who
prates to all who come near her about her own novel or her own volume of
sonnets.'
-----
Footnote 31:
'There was no want of low minds and bad hearts in the generation which
witnessed her first appearance. There was the envious Kenrick and the
savage Wolcot, the asp George Steevens and the polecat John Williams.
It did not, however, occur to them to search the parish register of
Lynn, in order that they might be able to twit a lady with having
concealed her age. That truly chivalrous exploit was reserved for a
bad writer of our own time, whose spite she had provoked by not
furnishing him with materials for a worthless edition of Boswell's
Life of Johnson, some sheets of which our readers have doubtless seen
round parcels of better books.'—_Macaulay's Essay._ This passage has
been often quoted and admired. Yet is not such writing rather too much
in the style of Mr. Bludyer, who, the reader will remember, was
reproached with mangling his victims? Compare Macaulay's swashing blow
with the deadly thrust of a true master of sarcasm. 'Nobody was
stronger in dates than Mr. Rigby; ... detail was Mr. Rigby's forte;
... _it was thought no one could lash a woman like Rigby_. Rigby's
statements were arranged with a formidable array of dates—rarely
accurate.'—_Coningsby._
Footnote 32:
The first edition consisted of 800 copies, the second of 500, the
third of 1,000. A fourth edition, the extent of which was not
divulged, followed in the autumn. After the third edition, Lowndes
paid the author a further sum of ten pounds in full satisfaction of
any claim or expectation which she or her friends might found on the
continued success of the book.
Footnote 33:
Mr. Crisp to Miss Burney, January, 1779: "Do you remember, about a
dozen years ago, how you used to dance 'Nancy Dawson' on the
grass-plot, with your cap on the ground, and your long hair streaming
down your back, one shoe off, and throwing about your head like a mad
thing!"
Footnote 34:
The sea-captain in 'Evelina.'
Footnote 35:
Diary, i., p. 18; Memoirs, ii., p. 149.
Footnote 36:
Lockhart's 'Life of Scott.' vi., p. 388. There seems to be some
trifling discrepancy between the different accounts, both as to the
date and the exact occasion of this incident.
Footnote 37:
'I have this to comfort me: that, the more I see of sea-captains, the
less reason I have to be ashamed of Captain Mirvan; for they have all
so irresistible a propensity to wanton mischief, to roasting beaux and
detesting old women, that I quite rejoice I showed the book to no one
ere printed, lest I should have been prevailed upon to soften his
character.'—Diary, May 28, 1780.
Footnote 38:
Suspirius the Screech Owl. See 'Rambler' for Tuesday, October 9,
1750.
Footnote 39:
She was then building her famous house in Portman Square.
Footnote 40:
Mrs. Horneck was the wife of General Horneck. Her two daughters,
Mrs. Bunbury and Miss Horneck (afterwards Mrs. Gwynn), were
celebrated beauties, and their portraits rank among the best
productions of Sir Joshua Reynolds's pencil. Mary Horneck was
Goldsmith's Jessamy Bride, and became the wife of one of George
III.'s equerries; her sister married Harry Bunbury, 'the graceful
and humorous amateur artist,' as Thackeray calls him, 'of those
days, when Gilray had but just begun to try his powers.'
Footnote 41:
Henry Temple, second Viscount Palmerston, father of the Prime
Minister.
Footnote 42:
Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Greville; afterwards Lady Crewe.
Footnote 43:
Well known as the founder of the _bas bleu_ meetings, and the author
of the name. Mr. Edward Stillingfleet, a writer on natural history,
who was one of her favourite guests, always wore blue stockings, and
a phrase used by her, 'Come in your blue stockings,' or 'We can do
nothing without the blue stockings,' caused the _bas bleu_ to be
adopted as the symbol of her literary parties.
-----
CHAPTER IV.
Return to Streatham—Murphy the Dramatist—A Proposed Comedy—'The
Witlings'—Adverse Judgment of Mr. Crisp and Dr. Burney—Fanny to Mr.
Crisp—Dr. Johnson on Miss Burney—A Visit to Brighton—Cumberland—An
Eccentric Character—Sir Joshua's Prices—Tragedies—Actors and Singers—
Regrets for the Comedy—Crisp's Reply—The Lawrence Family at Devizes—
Lady Miller's Vase—The Gordon Riots—Precipitate Retreat—Grub Street—
Sudden Death of Mr. Thrale—Idleness and Work—A Sister of the Craft—The
Mausoleum of Julia—Progress of 'Cecilia' through the Press—Crisp's
Judgment on 'Cecilia'—Johnson and 'Cecilia'—Publication of 'Cecilia'—
Burke—His Letter to Miss Burney—Assembly at Miss Monckton's—New
Acquaintances—Soame Jenyns—Illness and Death of Crisp—Mrs. Thrale's
Struggles—Ill-health of Johnson—Mr. Burney Organist of Chelsea
Hospital—Mrs. Thrale marries Piozzi—Last Interview with Johnson—His
Death.
In February, 1779, Miss Burney returned to Streatham. A bedroom was set
apart for her exclusive use. She became almost as much a recognised
member of the family as Dr. Johnson had for many years been. Nearly all
the remainder of 1779 was spent with her new friends, either at
Streatham, Tunbridge Wells, or Brighton. Her father could scarcely
regain possession of her, even for a few days, without a friendly
battle. Johnson always took the side of the resisting party. In one of
these contests, when Burney urged that she had been away from home too
long: 'Sir,' cried Johnson, seizing both her hands to detain her, 'I do
not think it long; I would have her _always_ come! and _never_ go!' In
February, the first new face she saw at Mrs. Thrale's was that of Arthur
Murphy,[44] playwright and translator of Tacitus. Mrs. Thrale charged
her to make herself agreeable to this gentleman, whose knowledge of the
stage might be of service to her in relation to the comedy which her
friends were urging her to write. The exhortation was unneeded, for
almost the first words uttered by Murphy in her presence won Fanny's
heart. Mrs. Thrale, missing Dr. Burney, who after his weekly lesson had
returned to town without taking leave, inveighed against him as a male
coquet: he only, she said, gave enough of his company to excite a desire
for more. Murphy was ready with his compliment.
'Dr. Burney,' he replied, 'is indeed a most extraordinary man; I think I
don't know such another: he is at home upon all subjects, and upon all
so agreeable! he is a wonderful man.'
Noting down this pretty speech led the diarist to record some words
which had passed between Johnson and herself on the same theme:
"'I love Burney,' said the Doctor; 'my heart goes out to meet him.'
"'He is not ungrateful, sir,' cried I: 'for most heartily does he love
you.'
"'Does he, madam? I am surprised at that.'
"'Why, sir? Why should you have doubted it?'
"'Because, madam, Dr. Burney is a man for all the world to love; it is
but natural to love _him_.'
"I could almost have cried with delight at this cordial, unlaboured
_éloge_."
An admirer of her father was a man whom Fanny could trust at once, and
she soon had confidences with Murphy, as well as with Johnson, on the
subject of her projected play. In May, the first draft was submitted to
the former, who bestowed on it abundance of flattery. Mrs. Thrale also
was warm in its praise. But the piece, when finished, had to be
submitted to critics who felt a deeper interest, and a stronger sense of
responsibility. The manuscript was carried by Dr. Burney to Crisp at
Chesington, and the two old friends sat in council on it. "I should
like," wrote Fanny to Crisp, "that your first reading should have
nothing to do with me—that you should go quick through it, or let my
father read it to you—forgetting all the time, as much as you can, that
Fannikin is the writer, or even that it is a play in manuscript, and
capable of alterations;—and, then, when you have done, I should like to
have three lines, telling me, as nearly as you can trust my candour, its
general effect. After that take it to your own desk, and lash it at your
leisure. Adieu, my dear daddy! I shall hope to hear from you very soon,
and pray believe me yours ever and ever."
The comedy was intended to be called 'The Witlings,' and seems to have
borne a strong resemblance to the _Femmes Savantes_. We have not the
letter containing Crisp's judgment, but he told his disciple plainly
that her production would be condemned as a pale copy of Molière's
piece. We gather also from subsequent correspondence that both he and
Dr. Burney felt 'The Witlings,' to be a failure, even when considered on
its own merits. It was some consolation to Fanny that she had never read
Molière, but she sought no saving for her self-love. Here is her answer
to her daddy:
"Well! 'there are plays that are to be saved, and plays that are not
to be saved!' so good-night, Mr. Dabbler!—good-night, Lady Smatter,—
Mrs. Sapient,—Mrs. Voluble,—Mrs. Wheedle,—Censor,—Cecilia,—Beaufort,—
and you, you great oaf, Bobby!—good-night! good-night!
And good-morning, Miss Fanny Burney!—I hope now you have opened your
eyes for some time, and will not close them in so drowsy a fit again—
at least till the full of the moon.
I won't tell you I have been absolutely _ravie_ with delight at the
fall of the curtain; but I intend to take the affair in the _tant
mieux_ manner, and to console myself for your censure by this greatest
proof I have ever received of the sincerity, candour, and, let me add,
esteem, of my dear daddy. And as I happen to love myself rather more
than my play, this consolation is not a very trifling one.
As to all you say of my reputation and so forth, I perceive the
kindness of your endeavours to put me in humour with myself, and
prevent my taking huff, which if I did, I should deserve to receive,
upon any future trial, hollow praise from you—and the rest from the
public.
As to the MS., I am in no hurry for it. Besides, it ought not to come
till I have prepared an ovation, and the honours of conquest for it.
The only bad thing in this affair is, that I cannot take the comfort
of my poor friend Dabbler, by calling you a crabbed fellow, because
you write with almost more kindness than ever; neither can I (though I
try hard) persuade myself that you have not a grain of taste in your
whole composition.
This, however, seriously I do believe,—that when my two daddies put
their heads together to concert for me that hissing, groaning,
catcalling epistle they sent me they felt as sorry for poor little
Miss Bayes as she could possibly do for herself.
You see I do not attempt to repay your frankness with the art of
pretended carelessness. But though somewhat disconcerted just now, I
will promise not to let my vexation live out another day. I shall not
browse upon it, but, on the contrary, drive it out of my thoughts, by
filling them up with things almost as good of other people's.
Our Hettina is much better; but pray don't keep Mr. B. beyond
Wednesday, for Mrs. Thrale makes a point of my returning to Streatham
on Tuesday, unless, which God forbid, poor Hetty should be worse
again.
Adieu, my dear daddy, I won't be mortified, and I won't be _downed_,—
but I will be proud to find I have, out of my own family, as well as
in it, a friend who loves me well enough to speak plain truth to me.
Always do thus, and always you shall be tried by,
Your much obliged
And most affectionate,
FRANCES BURNEY."
The manuscript comedy does not appear to have been shown to Dr. Johnson.
This was not for want of encouragement. He was extremely willing to read
it, or have it read to him, but desired that his opinion should be taken
before that of Murphy, who was to judge of the stage effect, and as the
latter had already offered his services, the scrupulous author felt that
this could not be. Fanny continued to grow in favour with Johnson. His
expressions of affection became stronger, his eulogy of her novel more
unmeasured.
"I know," he said on one occasion, "none like her, nor do I believe
there is, or there ever was, a _man_ who could write such a book so
young."
"I suppose," said Mrs. Thrale, "Pope was no older than Miss Burney when
he wrote 'Windsor Forest;'[45] and I suppose 'Windsor Forest' is equal
to 'Evelina!'"
'Windsor Forest,' though, according to Pope himself, it was in part
written at the age of sixteen, was finished and published when the poet
was twenty-five. But Johnson would by no means allow that 'Windsor
Forest' was so remarkable a work as 'Evelina.' The latter, he said,
seemed a work that should result from long experience and deep and
intimate knowledge of the world; yet it had been written without either.
"Miss Burney," added the sage, "is a real wonder. What she is, she is
intuitively. Dr. Burney told me she had had the fewest advantages of any
of his daughters, from some peculiar circumstances. And such has been
her timidity, that he himself had not any suspicion of her powers."
About this time, Johnson began teaching his favourite Latin, an
attention with which she would gladly have dispensed, thinking it an
injury to be considered a learned lady.
In the autumn of this year, Miss Burney accompanied the Thrales to
Tunbridge Wells, and thence to Brighton. Her Diary contains some lively
sketches of incidents on the Pantiles and the Steyne, for which we
cannot find space. At Brighton she encountered Sir Fretful Plagiary:
"'It has been,' said Mrs. Thrale warmly, 'all I could do not to
affront Mr. Cumberland to-night!'
"'Oh, I hope not!' cried I; 'I would not have you for the world!'
"'Why, I have refrained; but with great difficulty!'
"And then she told me the conversation she had just had with him. As
soon as I made off, he said, with a spiteful tone of voice:
"'Oh, that young lady is an author, I hear!'
"'Yes,' answered Mrs. Thrale, 'author of Evelina!'
"'Humph—I am told it has some humour!'
"'Ay, indeed! Johnson says nothing like it has appeared for years!'
"'So,' cried he, biting his lips, and waving uneasily in his chair,
'so, so!'
"'Yes,' continued she; 'and Sir Joshua Reynolds told Mr. Thrale he
would give fifty pounds to know the author!'
"'So, so—oh, vastly well!' cried he, putting his hand on his forehead.
"'Nay,' added she, 'Burke himself sat up all night to finish it!'
"This seemed quite too much for him; he put both his hands to his
face, and waving backwards and forwards, said:
"'Oh, vastly well!—this will do for anything!' with a tone as much as
to say, Pray, no more! Then Mrs. Thrale bid him good-night, longing,
she said, to call Miss Thrale first, and say, 'So you won't speak to
my daughter?—why, she is no author!'"
At another time, Mrs. Thrale said:
"Let him be tormented, if such things can torment him. For my part I'd
have a starling taught to halloo 'Evelina'!"
At Brighton, also, Miss Burney met with one of those humorous characters
which her pen loved to describe:
"I must now have the honour to present to you a new acquaintance, who
this day dined here-Mr. B——-y, an Irish gentleman, late a commissary
in Germany. He is between sixty and seventy, but means to pass for
about thirty; gallant, complaisant, obsequious, and humble to the fair
sex, for whom he has an awful reverence; but when not immediately
addressing them, swaggering, blustering, puffing, and domineering.
These are his two apparent characters; but the real man is worthy,
moral, religious, though conceited and parading.
"He is as fond of quotations as my poor '_Lady Smatter_,' and, like
her, knows little beyond a song, and always blunders about the author
of that.... His whole conversation consists in little French phrases,
picked up during his residence abroad, and in anecdotes and
storytelling, which are sure to be re-told daily and daily in the same
words....
"Speaking of the ball in the evening, to which we were all going, 'Ah,
madam!' said he to Mrs. Thrale, 'there was a time when—tol-de-rol,
tol-de-rol [rising, and dancing and singing], tol-de-rol!—I could
dance with the best of them; but, now a man, forty and upwards, as my
Lord Ligonier used to say—but—tol-de-rol!—there was a time!'
"'Ay, so there was, Mr. B——y,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'and I think you and
I together made a very venerable appearance!'
"'Ah! madam, I remember once, at Bath, I was called out to dance with
one of the finest young ladies I ever saw. I was just preparing to do
my best, when a gentleman of my acquaintance was so cruel as to
whisper me—'B——y! the eyes of all Europe are upon you!'—for that was
the phrase of the times. 'B——y!' says he, 'the eyes of all Europe are
upon you!'—I vow, ma'am, enough to make a man tremble!—tol-de-rol,
tol-de-rol! [dancing]—the eyes of all Europe are upon you!—I declare,
ma'am, enough to put a man out of countenance!"
"Dr. Delap, who came here some time after, was speaking of Horace.
"'Ah! madam,' cried Mr. B——y, 'this Latin—things of that kind—we waste
our youth, ma'am, in these vain studies. For my part, I wish I had
spent mine in studying French and Spanish—more useful, ma'am. But,
bless me, ma'am, what time have I had for that kind of thing?
Travelling here, over the ocean, hills and dales, ma'am—reading the
great book of the world—poor ignorant mortals, ma'am—no time to do
anything.'
"'Ay, Mr. B——y,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'I remember how you downed
Beauclerk and Hamilton, the wits, once at our house, when they talked
of ghosts!'
"'Ah! ma'am, give me a brace of pistols, and I warrant I'll manage a
ghost for you! Not but Providence may please to send little spirits—
guardian angels, ma'am—to watch us: that I can't speak about. It would
be presumptuous, ma'am—for what can a poor, ignorant mortal know?'
"'Ay, so you told Beauclerk and Hamilton.'
"'Oh yes, ma'am. Poor human beings can't account for anything—and call
themselves _esprits forts_. I vow 'tis presumptuous, ma'am! _Esprits
forts_, indeed! they can see no farther than their noses, poor,
ignorant mortals! Here's an admiral, and here's a prince, and here's a
general, and here's a dipper—and poor Smoker, the bather, ma'am!
What's all this strutting about, and that kind of thing? and then they
can't account for a blade of grass!'
"After this, Dr. Johnson being mentioned,
"'Ay,' said he, 'I'm sorry he did not come down with you. I liked him
better than those others: not much of a fine gentleman, indeed, but a
clever fellow—a deal of knowledge—got a deuced good understanding!'...
"I am absolutely almost ill with laughing. This Mr. B——y half
convulses me; yet I cannot make you laugh by writing his speeches,
because it is the manner which accompanies them that, more than the
matter, renders them so peculiarly ridiculous. His extreme pomposity,
the solemn stiffness of his person, the conceited twinkling of his
little old eyes, and the quaint importance of his delivery, are so
much more like some pragmatical old coxcomb represented on the stage,
than like anything in real and common life, that I think, were I a
man, I should sometimes be betrayed into clapping him for acting so
well. As it is, I am sure no character in any comedy I ever saw has
made me laugh more extravagantly.
"He dines and spends the evening here constantly, to my great
satisfaction.
"At dinner, when Mrs. Thrale offers him a seat next her, he regularly
says:
"'But where are _les charmantes_?' meaning Miss T. and me. 'I can do
nothing till they are accommodated!'
"And, whenever he drinks a glass of wine, he never fails to touch
either Mrs. Thrale's or my glass, with '_est-il-permis?_'
"But at the same time that he is so courteous, he is proud to a most
sublime excess, and thinks every person to whom he speaks honoured
beyond measure by his notice,—nay, he does not even look at anybody
without evidently displaying that such notice is more the effect of
his benign condescension, than of any pretension on their part to
deserve such a mark of his perceiving their existence. But you will
think me mad about this man....
"As he is notorious for his contempt of all artists, whom he looks
upon with little more respect than upon day-labourers, the other day,
when painting was discussed, he spoke of Sir Joshua Reynolds as if he
had been upon a level with a carpenter or farrier.
"'Did you ever,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'see his Nativity?'
"'No, madam,—but I know his pictures very well; I knew him many years
ago, in Minorca; he drew my picture there, and then he knew how to
take a moderate price; but now, I vow, ma'am, 'tis scandalous—
scandalous indeed! to pay a fellow here seventy guineas for scratching
out a head!'
"'Sir!' cried Dr. Delap,[46] 'you must not run down Sir Joshua
Reynolds, because he is Miss Burney's friend.'
"'Sir,' answered he, 'I don't want to run the man down; I like him
well enough in his proper place; he is as decent as any man of that
sort I ever knew; but for all that, sir, his prices are shameful. Why,
he would not [_looking at the poor Doctor with an enraged contempt_]—
he would not do _your_ head under seventy guineas!'
"'Well,' said Mrs. Thrale, 'he had one portrait at the last
Exhibition, that I think hardly could be paid enough for; it was of a
Mr. Stuart; I had never done admiring it.'
"'What stuff is this, ma'am!' cried Mr. B——y; 'how can two or three
dabs of paint ever be worth such a sum as that?'
"'Sir,' said Mr. Selwyn (always willing to draw him out), 'you know
not how much he is improved since you knew him in Minorca; he is now
the finest painter, perhaps, in the world.'
"'Pho, pho, sir!' cried he, 'how can you talk so? you, Mr. Selwyn, who
have seen so many capital pictures abroad?'
"'Come, come, sir,' said the ever odd Dr. Delap, 'you must not go on
so undervaluing him, for, I tell you, he is a friend of Miss
Burney's.'
"'Sir,' said Mr. B——y, 'I tell you again I have no objection to the
man; I have dined in his company two or three times; a very decent man
he is, fit to keep company with gentlemen; but, ma'am, what are all
your modern dabblers put together to one ancient? Nothing!—a set of—
not a Rubens among them! I vow, ma'am, not a Rubens among them!'...
"Whenever plays are mentioned, we have also a regular speech about
them.
"'I never,' he says, 'go to a tragedy,—it's too affecting; tragedy
enough in real life: tragedies are only fit for fair females; for my
part, I cannot bear to see Othello tearing about in that violent
manner;—and fair little Desdemona—ma'am, 'tis too affecting! to see
your kings and your princes tearing their pretty locks,—oh, there's no
standing it! 'A straw-crown'd monarch,'—what is that, Mrs. Thrale?
'A straw-crown'd monarch in mock majesty.'
I can't recollect now where that is; but for my part, I really cannot
bear to see such sights. And then out come the white handkerchiefs,
and all their pretty eyes are wiping, and then come poison and
daggers, and all that kind of thing,—Oh, ma'am, 'tis too much; but yet
the fair tender hearts, the pretty little females, all like it!'
"This speech, word for word, I have already heard from him literally
four times.
"When Mr. Garrick was mentioned, he honoured him with much the same
style of compliment as he had done Sir Joshua Reynolds.
"'Ay, ay,' said he, 'that Garrick is another of those fellows that
people run mad about. Ma'am, 'tis a shame to think of such things! an
actor living like a person of quality! scandalous! I vow, scandalous!'
"'Well,—commend me to Mr. B——y!' cried Mrs. Thrale, 'for he is your
only man to put down all the people that everybody else sets up.'
"'Why, ma'am,' answered he, 'I like all these people very well in
their proper places; but to see such a set of poor beings living like
persons of quality,—'tis preposterous! common sense, madam, common
sense is against that kind of thing. As to Garrick, he is a very good
mimic, an entertaining fellow enough, and all that kind of thing; but
for an actor to live like a person of quality—oh, scandalous!'
"Some time after, the musical tribe was mentioned. He was at cards at
the time with Mr. Selwyn, Dr. Delap, and Mr. Thrale, while we 'fair
females,' as he always calls us, were speaking of Agujari. He
constrained himself from flying out as long as he was able; but upon
our mentioning her having fifty pounds a song, he suddenly, in a great
rage, called out, 'Catgut and rosin!—ma'am, 'tis scandalous!'
"We all laughed, and Mr. Selwyn, to provoke him on, said:
"'Why, sir, how shall we part with our money better?'
"'Oh fie! fie!' cried he, 'I have not patience to hear of such folly;
common sense, sir, common sense is against it. Why, now, there was one
of these fellows at Bath last season, a Mr. Rauzzini,[47]—I vow I
longed to cane him every day! such a work made with him! all the fair
females sighing for him! enough to make a man sick!'"
At the beginning of 1780, Miss Burney was troubled about her suppressed
comedy. She wrote to Mr. Crisp:
"As my play was settled, I entreated my father to call on Mr.
Sheridan, in order to prevent his expecting anything from me, as he
had had a good right to do, from my having sent him a positive message
that I should, in compliance with his exhortations at Mrs.
Cholmondeley's, try my fortune in the theatrical line, and send him a
piece for this winter. My father did call, but found him not at home,
neither did he happen to see him till about Christmas. He then
acquainted him that what I had written had entirely dissatisfied me,
and that I desired to decline for the present all attempts of that
sort.
"Mr. Sheridan was pleased to express great concern,—nay, more, to
protest he would not accept my refusal. He begged my father to tell me
that he could take no denial to seeing what I had done—that I could be
no fair judge for myself—that he doubted not but what it would please,
but was glad I was not satisfied, as he had much rather see pieces
before their authors were contented with them than afterwards, on
account of sundry small changes always necessary to be made by the
managers, for theatrical purposes, and to which they were loth to
submit when their writings were finished to their own approbation. In
short, he said so much, that my father, ever easy to be worked upon,
began to waver, and told me he wished I would show the play to
Sheridan at once."
As the result of this, Fanny conceived a plan for revising and altering
her piece, which she submitted to her daddy. Crisp answered:
"The play has wit enough and enough—but the story and the incidents
don't appear to me interesting enough to seize and keep hold of the
attention and eager expectations of the generality of audiences. This,
to me, is its capital defect." He went on to suggest that this fault,
being fundamental, admitted of no remedy. And then in reference to a
proposed trip to Italy, he added: "They tell me of a delightful tour you
are to make this autumn on the other side of the water, with Mr. and
Mrs. Thrale, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Murphy, etc. Where will you find such
another set? Oh, Fanny, set this down as the happiest period of your
life; and when you come to be old and sick, and health and spirits are
fled (for the time may come), then live upon remembrance, and think that
you have had your share of the good things of this world, and say: For
what I have received, the Lord make me thankful!"
The autumnal trip to the Continent did not take place, but in April the
Thrales and Miss Burney went by easy stages to Bath:
"The third day we reached Devizes.
"And here, Mrs. Thrale and I were much pleased with our hostess, Mrs.
Lawrence, who seemed something above her station in her inn. While we
were at cards before supper, we were much surprised by the sound of a
piano-forte. I jumped up, and ran to listen whence it proceeded. I
found it came from the next room, where the overture to the 'Buona
Figliuola' was performing. The playing was very decent, but as the
music was not quite new to me, my curiosity was not whole ages in
satisfying itself, and therefore I returned to finish the rubber.
"Don't I begin to talk in an old-cattish manner of cards?
"Well, another deal was hardly played, ere we heard the sound of a
voice, and out I ran again. The singing, however, detained me not
long, and so back I whisked: but the performance, however indifferent
in itself, yet surprised us at the Bear at Devizes, and, therefore,
Mrs. Thrale determined to know from whom it came. Accordingly, she
tapped at the door. A very handsome girl, about thirteen years old,
with fine dark hair upon a finely-formed forehead, opened it. Mrs.
Thrale made an apology for her intrusion, but the poor girl blushed
and retreated into a corner of the room: another girl, however,
advanced, and obligingly and gracefully invited us in, and gave us all
chairs. She was just sixteen, extremely pretty, and with a countenance
better than her features, though those were also very good. Mrs.
Thrale made her many compliments, which she received with a mingled
modesty and pleasure, both becoming and interesting. She was, indeed,
a sweetly-pleasing girl.
"We found they were both daughters of our hostess, and born and bred
at Devizes. We were extremely pleased with them, and made them a long
visit, which I wished to have been longer. But though those pretty
girls struck us so much, the wonder of the family was yet to be
produced. This was their brother, a most lovely boy of ten years of
age, who seems to be not merely the wonder of their family, but of the
times, for his astonishing skill in drawing.[48] They protest he has
never had any instruction, yet showed us some of his productions that
were really beautiful. Those that were copies were delightful—those of
his own composition amazing, though far inferior. I was equally struck
with the boy and his works.
"We found that he had been taken to town, and that all the painters
had been very kind to him, and Sir Joshua Reynolds had pronounced him,
the mother said, the most promising genius he had ever met with. Mr.
Hoare[49] has been so charmed with this sweet boy's drawings that he
intends sending him to Italy with his own son.
"This house was full of books, as well as paintings, drawings, and
music; and all the family seem not only ingenious and industrious, but
amiable; added to which, they are strikingly handsome."
A chief topic of conversation at this time in Bath was Lady Miller's
vase at Batheaston. Horace Walpole mentions this vase, and the use to
which it was put: 'They hold a Parnassus-fair every Thursday, give out
rhymes and themes, and all the flux at Bath contend for the prizes. A
Roman vase, dressed with pink ribbons and myrtles, receives the poetry,
which is drawn out every festival. Six judges of these Olympic games
retire, and select the brightest composition.' Fanny met Lady Miller,
whom she describes with her usual candour: 'Lady Miller is a round,
plump, coarse-looking dame of about forty, and while all her aim is to
appear an elegant woman of fashion, all her success is to seem an
ordinary woman in very common life, with fine clothes on. Her habits are
bustling, her air is mock-important, and her manners very inelegant.' In
the midst of a round of gaieties, the Thrale party attended a reception
at Batheaston. The rooms were crowded; but it being now June, the
business of the vase was over for that season, and the sacred vessel
itself had been removed. On returning to their lodging, they received
the news of the Gordon Riots. Next morning Mrs. Thrale had letters
acquainting her that her town-house had been three times attacked, but
saved by the Guards, with the children, plate, and valuables, which were
removed. Streatham had also been threatened and emptied of all its
furniture. The same day a Bath newspaper denounced Mr. Thrale as a
<DW7>. The brewer was now in a critical state of health, and it became
necessary to remove him without exciting his alarm. Miss Burney was
employed to break the matter to him, and obtained his consent to an
immediate departure. Arriving at Salisbury on the 11th of June, they
were reassured by information that order had been restored in London,
and Lord George Gordon sent to the Tower. In London the friends parted,
and Fanny returned to her father's house. Johnson met her at Sir
Joshua's a few days after, and mention being made of a house in Grub
Street that had been destroyed by the mob, proposed that they should go
there together, and visit the seats of their progenitors.
The latter part of this year, and part of 1781, were spent by Miss
Burney chiefly in writing 'Cecilia.' While thus occupied she passed most
of her time at Chesington. In February, 1781, she writes from that place
to Mrs. Thrale: "I think I shall always hate this book, which has kept
me so long away from you, as much as I shall always love 'Evelina,'
which first _comfortably_ introduced me to you." Shortly after the date
of this letter, the writer returned home, apparently for the purpose of
meeting the Thrales, who were fixed for the winter in Grosvenor Square.
She found them engaged in giving parties to half London. In the midst of
their entertainments Mr. Thrale died suddenly from a stroke of apoplexy.
Fanny could not desert her friend in such trouble. So soon as the widow
could bear any society, she summoned her young companion to Streatham,
and kept her there, with hardly an interval, till the summer was over.
It does not appear that Fanny was at all averse to be detained, but so
long a stay was not to her advantage. Her hostess, of course, was much
engrossed by the late brewer's affairs. Dr. Johnson, as one of the
executors, was similarly employed; and though Miss Burney, from time to
time, saw something of him, as well as of his co-executors, Mr.
Cator[50] and Mr. Crutchley,[51] she met with little in the narrowed and
secluded household to compensate her for her loss of time. If she busied
herself at all with 'Cecilia' during this period, she seems to have
accomplished very little. At any rate, both her fathers became impatient
of her inaction. Prompted from Chesington, Dr. Burney would have
recalled his daughter, but found himself powerless against the
self-willed little lady of Thrale Hall. The more resolute Crisp then
took the field in person,[52] and in spite of his infirmities, repaired
to Streatham, whence he carried off the captive authoress, and
straightway consigned her to what he called the Doctor's Conjuring
Closet, at his own abode. There Fanny was held to her task till the
beginning of 1782, when she was called home to be present at the
marriage of her sister Susan to Captain Phillips; after which Dr. Burney
kept her stationary in St. Martin's Street till she had written the word
'Finis' on the last proof-sheet of 'Cecilia.'
However, when the new novel was fairly in the printer's hands, the
author was again seen in London society. At a party, given by a Mrs.
Paradise, she was introduced to a sister of her craft:
"Mrs. Paradise, leaning over the Kirwans and Charlotte, who hardly got
a seat all night for the crowd, said she begged to speak to me. I
squeezed my great person out, and she then said:
"'Miss Burney, Lady Say and Sele desires the honour of being
introduced to you.'
"Her ladyship stood by her side. She seems pretty near fifty—at least
turned forty; her head was full of feathers, flowers, jewels, and
gew-gaws, and as high as Lady Archer's; her dress was trimmed with
beads, silver, Persian sashes, and all sort of fine fancies; her face
is thin and fiery, and her whole manner spoke a lady all alive.
"'Miss Burney,' cried she, with great quickness, and a look all
curiosity, 'I am very happy to see you; I have longed to see you a
great while; I have read your performance, and I am quite delighted
with it. I think it's the most elegant novel I ever read in my life.
Such a style! I am quite surprised at it. I can't think where you got
so much invention!'
"'You may believe this was a reception not to make me very loquacious.
I did not know which way to turn my head.
"'I must introduce you,' continued her ladyship, 'to my sister; she'll
be quite delighted to see you. She has written a novel herself; so you
are sister authoresses. A most elegant thing it is, I assure you;
almost as pretty as yours, only not quite so elegant. She has written
two novels, only one is not so pretty as the other. But I shall insist
upon your seeing them. One is in letters, like yours, only yours is
prettiest; it's called the "Mausoleum of Julia!"'
"What unfeeling things, thought I, are _my_ sisters! I'm sure I never
heard them go about thus praising _me_!
"Mrs. Paradise then again came forward, and, taking my hand, led me up
to her ladyship's sister, Lady Hawke, saying aloud, and with a
courteous smirk, 'Miss Burney, ma'am, authoress of "Evelina."'...
"Lady Hawke arose and curtseyed. She is much younger than her sister,
and rather pretty; extremely languishing, delicate, and pathetic;
apparently accustomed to be reckoned the genius of her family, and
well contented to be looked upon as a creature dropped from the
clouds....
"'My sister intends,' said Lady Say and Sele, 'to print her
"Mausoleum," just for her own friends and acquaintances.'
"'Yes,' said Lady Hawke: 'I have never printed yet.'...
"'Well,' cried Lady Say, 'but do repeat that sweet part that I am so
fond of—you know what I mean; Miss Burney _must_ hear it—out of your
novel, you know!'
"_Lady H._: No, I can't; I have forgot it.
"_Lady S._: Oh, no! I am sure you have not; I insist upon it.
"_Lady H._: But I know you can repeat it yourself; you have so fine a
memory; I am sure you can repeat it.
"_Lady S._: Oh, but I should not do it justice! that's all—I should
not do it justice!
"Lady Hawke then bent forward, and repeated: 'If, when he made the
declaration of his love, the sensibility that beamed in his eyes was
felt in his heart, what pleasing sensations and soft alarms might not
that tender avowal awaken!'
"'And from what, ma'am,' cried I, astonished, and imagining I had
mistaken them, 'is this taken?'
"'From my sister's novel!' answered the delighted Lady Say and Sele,
expecting my raptures to be equal to her own; 'it's in the
"Mausoleum,"—did not you know that? Well, I can't think how you can
write these sweet novels! And it's all just like that part. Lord Hawke
himself says it's all poetry. For my part, I'm sure I never could
write so. I suppose, Miss Burney, you are producing another—a'n't
you?'
"'No, ma'am.'
"'Oh, I dare say you are. I dare say you are writing one at this very
minute!'"
Years afterwards, when Miss Burney had entered the royal household,
Queen Charlotte lent her a presentation copy of a novel which her
Majesty had received from Lady Hawke. The book proved to be the
"Mausoleum of Julia," then at length given to the public. "It is all
of a piece," laughed Fanny, on reading it—"all love, love, love,
unmixed and unadulterated with any more worldly materials."
'Cecilia' was now passing slowly through the press, amidst the comments
and flattering predictions of the few friends who were permitted to see
the manuscript. Mrs. Thrale and Queeny reddened their eyes over the
pages; Dr. Burney found them more engrossing even than 'Evelina;' but
the author's only real adviser was her 'other daddy.' Crisp was a close,
but not an overbearing critic; he had great faith in his Fannikin, and
he was restrained, besides, by rankling memories of his unfortunate
'Virginia.' 'Whomever you think fit to consult,' he wrote, 'let their
talents and taste be ever so great, hear what they say, but never give
up, or alter a tittle, merely on their authority, nor unless it
perfectly accords with your own inward feelings. I can say this to my
sorrow and to my cost. But mum!' And if Crisp was somewhat dogmatic, he
was also a sanguine admirer, declaring that he would insure the rapid
and complete success of the novel for half a crown. Miss Burney, too,
though bashful in a drawing-room, had plenty of self-reliance in her
study, and was by no means disposed to be often seeking counsel.
Macaulay, always confident in his conjectures, will have it that she
received assistance from Johnson. But he had before him, in the Diary, a
distinct assertion to the contrary, stated to have been made by the
Doctor himself some time after the publication. If we may trust Fanny,
Johnson said: 'Ay, some people want to make out some credit to me from
the little rogue's book. I was told by a gentleman this morning that it
was a very fine book if it was all her own. "It is all her own," said I,
"for me, I am sure; for I never saw one word of it before it was
printed."'[53] Macaulay did not mean to emulate Croker; he was betrayed
by fancied resemblances of style, than which nothing can be more
deceptive. The probability is that the manuscript was not submitted to
Johnson, lest he should be held to have written what he only corrected.
'Cecilia; or, The Memoirs of an heiress,' was published in July, 1782.
"We have been informed," says Macaulay, "by persons who remember those
days, that no romance of Sir Walter Scott was more impatiently awaited,
or more eagerly snatched from the counters of the booksellers." The
first edition, which was exhausted in the following October, consisted
of two thousand copies; and Macaulay was told by someone, not named,
that an equal number of pounds was received by the author for her work.
There is no producible authority for the latter statement, and we cannot
but think that it is an exaggeration, arising out of some confusion
between the amount paid for the copyright, and the number of copies
first printed. At any rate, the sum mentioned does not seem to square
with some expressions used by Burke, who about this time began to take a
personal interest in Miss Burney.
The great statesman was introduced to her, a few days before her second
novel appeared, at a dinner given by Sir Joshua in his house on Richmond
Hill. At the end of July he addressed her in a letter of congratulation:
'You have crowded,' he wrote, 'into a few small volumes an incredible
variety of characters; most of them well planned, well supported, and
well contrasted with each other. If there be any fault in this respect,
it is one in which you are in no great danger of being imitated. Justly
as your characters are drawn, perhaps they are too numerous. But I beg
pardon; I fear it is quite in vain to preach economy to those who are
come young to excessive and sudden opulence. I might trespass on your
delicacy if I should fill my letter to you with what I fill my
conversation to others. I should be troublesome to you alone if I should
tell you all I feel and think on the natural vein of humour, the tender
pathetic, the comprehensive and noble moral, and the sagacious
observation, that appear quite throughout that extraordinary
performance.' To be addressed in such terms by such a man was enough to
turn the head of any young writer; and this letter may be regarded as
marking the topmost point in Fanny's literary career.
Four months afterwards she encountered Mr. Burke again at Miss
Monckton's[54] assembly. The gathering was a brilliant one: most of the
ladies present were going to the Duchess of Cumberland's, and were in
full dress, oppressed by the weight of their sacques and ruffles; but as
soon as Burke and Sir Joshua Reynolds entered, Frances Burney had no
eyes for anyone else. When the knight had paid his compliments, Burke
sat down beside her, and a conversation ensued, in which the great man
used the words to which we have referred. He began by repeating and
amplifying the praises of his letter; and then, not to appear fulsome,
proceeded to find fault: the famous masquerade he thought too long, and
that something might be spared from Harrel's grand assembly; he did not
like Morrice's part at the Pantheon, and he wished the conclusion either
more happy or more miserable; 'for in a work of imagination,' said he,
'there is no medium.' But, he added, there was one further fault more
serious than any he had mentioned, and that was the disposal of the
book: why had not Mr. Briggs, the city gentleman of the novel, been sent
for? he would have taken care that it should not be parted with so much
below par. Had two thousand pounds, or any sum approaching that, been
given for the copyright, the price could not have been considered
insufficient. We are obliged, therefore, to conclude that the story told
to the Edinburgh Reviewer was apocryphal.[55]
The list of Miss Burney's friends continued to enlarge itself. In the
winter of 1782-3, besides being made free of certain fashionable houses,
such as Miss Monckton's and Mrs. Walsingham's,[56] she became known to
the two 'old wits,' Owen Cambridge and Soame Jenyns,[57] to Erskine, the
Wartons, Benjamin West, Jackson of Exeter, William Windham, Dr. Parr,
Mrs. Delany, and a host of others, till she began 'to grow most heartily
sick of this continual round of visiting, and these eternal new
acquaintances.' Soame Jenyns came to meet her at a reception arranged by
his special request, and, at seventy-eight, arrayed himself for the
occasion in a Court suit of apricot- silk, lined with white
satin, making all the slow speed in his power to address her, as she
entered, in a studied harangue on the honour, and the pleasure, and the
what not, of seeing so celebrated an authoress; while the whole of a
large company rose, and stood to listen to his compliments.
But the time was coming when Frances was to learn that life has its
trials even for the most favoured children of fortune. In the spring of
1783, Mr. Crisp's old enemy the gout fixed upon his head and chest; and,
after an illness of some duration, he sank under the attack. His fits of
gout had latterly become so constant that at first the fatal seizure
caused little apprehension. In the early part of his sufferings Fanny
sent frequent letters to cheer him. 'God bless,' she writes, 'and
restore you, my most dear daddy! You know not how kindly I take your
thinking of me, and inquiring about me, in an illness that might so well
make you forget us all; but Susan assures me your heart is as
affectionate as ever to your ever and ever faithful and loving child.'
As soon as danger was declared, she hastened to Chesington. She attended
the old man throughout his last few days; he called her, at parting,
'the dearest thing to him on earth;' and her passionate sorrow for his
death excited the alarm, though not the jealousy, of her natural
father.[58]
And this loss was not the only trouble of that year. Mrs. Thrale had for
some time been meditating her foolish second marriage. As soon as
'Cecilia' was off her mind, Miss Burney had resumed her visits to
Streatham. She at once found that her friend was changed. Mrs. Thrale
had become absent, restless, moody. The secret of her attachment to
Piozzi was not long in being disclosed to Fanny, who could give her
comfort, though not sympathy. The latter remained long enough at
Streatham to witness the gradual estrangement of her hostess from Dr.
Johnson. One morning the Doctor accompanied his little Burney in the
carriage to London: as they turned into Streatham Common, he exclaimed,
pointing backwards: 'That house is lost to _me_ for ever!' A few weeks
later, the house was let to Lord Shelburne. Mrs. Thrale retired to
Brighton, and afterwards coming to town, passed the winter in Argyle
Street. Frances spent much time with her there. But in the beginning of
April the uneasy widow went with her three eldest daughters to take up
her abode at Bath, till she could make up her mind to complete the match
which all her friends disapproved. Crisp's illness becoming serious
shortly afterwards, left Fanny no time at first to grieve over this
separation. She felt it all the more on her return to St. Martin's
Street after her daddy's death. And in the summer, Dr. Johnson's health,
which for some time had been steadily declining, was broken down by a
stroke of paralysis. She visited him frequently at his house in Bolt
Court. One evening, when she with her father and some others were
sitting with him, he turned aside to her, and, grasping her hand, said:
'The blister I have tried for my breath has betrayed some very bad
tokens; but I will not terrify myself by talking of them. Ah, _priez
Dieu pour moi_!'
One ray of comfort the close of 1783 brought with it. On the day on
which the Ministry to which he belonged was dissolved, Mr. Burke
appointed Dr. Burney organist of Chelsea Hospital, at the insignificant,
though augmented salary of £50 a year, regretting that while he had been
Paymaster-General, nothing more worthy of the Doctor's acceptance had
fallen to his disposal. About this incident Miss Burney writes: 'You
have heard the whole story of Mr. Burke, the Chelsea Hospital, and his
most charming letter? To-day he called, and, as my father was out,
inquired for me. He made a thousand apologies for breaking in upon me,
but said the business was finally settled at the Treasury. Nothing could
be more delicate, more elegant than his manner of doing this kindness. I
don't know whether he was most polite, or most friendly, in his whole
behaviour to me. I could almost have cried when he said, "This is my
last act in office." He said it with so manly a cheerfulness, in the
midst of undisguised regret. What a man he is!'
The record of 1784 in the Diary is very short. The chief incidents are
the marriage of Mrs. Thrale to Piozzi, and the death of Dr. Johnson.
Enough, and more than enough, has been written on the subject of the
marriage. Most of the lady's contemporaries spoke of it as if it had
been some disgraceful offence. Many in later times have adopted the same
tone. Dr. Burney had introduced Piozzi to the Thrales, and for this and
other reasons, the Doctor and his family were disposed to be more
lenient in their judgment. Dr. Burney said: 'No one could blame Piozzi
for accepting a gay rich widow. What could a man do better?' And the
singing-master was a quiet, inoffensive person. Still, as to the lady,
it could not be forgotten that she had young daughters, whose prospects
she had no right to prejudice by a match so unequal and so generally
condemned. It is, therefore, not surprising that when the wedding took
place about the middle of this year, and Mrs. Piozzi wrote, demanding
cordial congratulations, Miss Burney was unable to reply with warmth
enough to satisfy her. The intimate friendship and correspondence of six
years, therefore, came to an end. Fanny, who was the last to write,
attributed the rupture, at one time, to the cause just mentioned, and,
at another, to the resentment of Piozzi, when informed of her constant
opposition to the union.
Some months later, Miss Burney had her final interview with Dr. Johnson:
"Last Thursday, Nov. 25th, my father set me down at Bolt Court, while
he went on upon business. I was anxious to again see poor Dr. Johnson,
who has had terrible health since his return from Lichfield. He let me
in, though very ill. He was alone, which I much rejoiced at: for I had
a longer and more satisfactory conversation with him than I have had
for many months. He was in rather better spirits, too, than I have
lately seen him; but he told me he was going to try what sleeping out
of town might do for him.
"'I remember,' said he, 'that my wife, when she was near her end, poor
woman, was also advised to sleep out of town; and when she was carried
to the lodgings that had been prepared for her, she complained that
the staircase was in very bad condition—for the plaster was beaten off
the walls in many places. 'Oh,' said the man of the house, 'that's
nothing but by the knocks against it of the coffins of the poor souls
that have died in the lodgings!'
"He laughed, though not without apparent secret anguish, in telling me
this. I felt extremely shocked, but, willing to confine my words at
least to the literal story, I only exclaimed against the unfeeling
absurdity of such a confession.
"'Such a confession,' cried he, 'to a person then coming to try his
lodging for her health, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can
well lay our account for.'
"I had seen Miss T. the day before.
"'So,' said he, 'did I.'
"I then said: 'Do you ever, sir, hear from her mother?'
"'No,' cried he, 'nor write to her. I drive her quite from my mind. If
I meet with one of her letters, I burn it instantly. I have burnt all
I can find. I never speak of her, and I desire never to hear of her
more. I drive her, as I said, wholly from my mind.'
"Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the
Bristol milk-woman,[59] and told him the tales I had heard of her
writing so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and
Milton; 'though those,' I continued, 'could never possibly, I should
think, be the first authors with anybody. Would children understand
them? and grown people who have not read are children in literature.'
"'Doubtless,' said he; 'but there is nothing so little comprehended
among mankind as what is genius. They give to it all, when it can be
but a part. Genius is nothing more than knowing the use of tools; but
there must be tools for it to use: a man who has spent all his life in
this room will give a very poor account of what is contained in the
next.'
"'Certainly, sir; yet there is such a thing as invention; Shakespeare
could never have seen a Caliban.'
"'No; but he had seen a man, and knew, therefore, how to vary him to a
monster. A man who would draw a monstrous cow, must first know what a
cow commonly is; or how can he tell that to give her an ass's head or
an elephant's tusk will make her monstrous? Suppose you show me a man
who is a very expert carpenter; another will say he was born to be a
carpenter—but what if he had never seen any wood? Let two men, one
with genius, the other with none, look at an overturned waggon:—he who
has no genius, will think of the waggon only as he sees it,
overturned, and walk on; he who has genius, will paint it to himself
before it was overturned,—standing still, and moving on, and heavy
loaded, and empty; but both must see the waggon, to think of it at
all.'
"How just and true all this, my dear Susy! He then grew animated, and
talked on, upon this milk-woman, upon a once as famous shoemaker, and
upon our immortal Shakespeare, with as much fire, spirit, wit, and
truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him. How
delightfully bright are his faculties, though the poor and infirm
machine that contains them seems alarmingly giving way.
"Yet, all brilliant as he was, I saw him growing worse, and offered to
go, which, for the first time I ever remember, he did not oppose; but,
most kindly pressing both my hands:
"'Be not,' he said, in a voice of even tenderness, 'be not longer in
coming again for my letting you go now.'
"I assured him I would be the sooner, and was running off, but he
called me back, in a solemn voice, and, in a manner the most
energetic, said:
"'Remember me in your prayers!'
"I longed to ask him to remember me, but did not dare. I gave him my
promise, and, very heavily indeed, I left him. Great, good, and
excellent that he is, how short a time will he be our boast! Ah, my
dear Susy, I see he is going! This winter will never conduct him to a
more genial season here! Elsewhere, who shall hope a fairer? I wish I
had bid him pray for me; but it seemed to me presumptuous, though this
repetition of so kind a condescension might, I think, have encouraged
me."
'He wished to look on her once more; and on the day before his death she
long remained in tears on the stairs leading to his bedroom, in the hope
that she might be called in to receive his blessing. He was then sinking
fast, and though he sent her an affectionate message, was unable to see
her.'[60]
-----
Footnote 44:
1730-1805. A native of Elphin, in Ireland; was educated at St. Omer's;
gave up the trade on which he had entered for literature; published
the _Gray's Inn Journal_ from 1752 to 1754; went on the stage, wrote
dramas, and engaged in politics; at last became a barrister, and died
a Commissioner of Bankrupts. He produced twenty-three plays, of which
the 'Grecian Daughter' was the most popular. His translation of
Tacitus had great repute in its day.
Footnote 45:
In January, 1779, Mrs. Thrale wrote to Fanny: "You are twenty odd
years old, and I am past thirty-six."
Footnote 46:
John Delap, D.D. (1725-1812), poet and dramatist. After being curate
to Mason, the poet, he held livings in Sussex, and wrote numerous
poems and tragedies, all of which have long been forgotten.
Footnote 47:
An Italian composer and singer. Born at Rome in 1747; came to England
in 1774; adopted the profession of singing-master in 1777; settled
permanently at Bath in 1787, and died there in 1810. He was the author
of several Operas, and counted Braham among his pupils.
Footnote 48:
This boy was afterwards the celebrated painter, Sir Thomas Lawrence,
President of the Royal Academy.
Footnote 49:
Mr. C. Prince Hoare. The intended patronage did not take place. The
Lawrences left Devizes almost immediately after the date of the
above notice, and thenceforth the whole family were supported by the
extraordinary talents of the boy artist.
Footnote 50:
M.P. for Ipswich in 1784. Described by Dr. Johnson as having "much
good in his character, and much usefulness in his knowledge." Johnson
used to visit Mr. Cator at his seat at Beckenham.
Footnote 51:
M.P. for Horsham in 1784.
Footnote 52:
"Memoirs," vol. ii., p. 218.
Footnote 53:
Diary, November 4, 1782. The story, which was repeated and believed by
Lord Byron, that Johnson superintended 'Cecilia,' was corrected by
Moore in his life of the poet, published in 1830. 'Lord Byron is here
mistaken. Dr. Johnson never saw "Cecilia" till it was in print. A day
or two before publication the young authoress, as I understand, sent
three copies to the three persons who had most claim to them—her
father, Mrs. Thrale, and Dr. Johnson.'
Footnote 54:
The Honourable Mary Monckton, daughter of the first Viscount Galway,
and wife of the seventh Earl of Cork and Ossory, well known to the
readers of Boswell as 'the lively Miss Monckton, who used always to
have the finest bit of blue at her parties.' She was born in April,
1746, and died on the 30th of May 1840.
Footnote 55:
There is also a letter of Crisp's in which he mentions a promise of
Dr. Burney to make up his daughter's gains to even money. A few years
later, when her reputation was enhanced by 'Cecilia,' Miss Burney
asked for her third novel, 'Camilla,' no more than eleven hundred
guineas. On the whole, we are inclined to believe that the sum she
received for 'Cecilia' was less than £1,000.
Footnote 56:
Daughter of Sir Charles Hanbury Williams.
Footnote 57:
Contributors to "The World." Soame Jenyns was chiefly known by his
work "On the Evidences of the Christian Religion." He died in 1877;
Cambridge in 1802.
Footnote 58:
Crisp died April 24, 1783, aged seventy-six. A monument to his memory
was put up in the little church at Chesington, with an inscription
from the pen of Dr. Burney. His library was sold in the following
year.
Footnote 59:
Ann Yearsley.
Footnote 60:
Macaulay.
-----
CHAPTER V.
Mrs. Delany—Her Childhood—Her First Marriage—Swift—Dr. Delany—The
Dowager Duchess of Portland—Mrs. Delany a Favourite at Court—Her
Flower-Work—Miss Burney's First Visit to Mrs. Delany—Meets the Duchess
of Portland—Mrs. Sleepe—Crisp—Growth of Friendship with Mrs. Delany—
Society at her House—Mrs. Delany's Reminiscences—The Lockes of Norbury
Park—Mr. Smelt—Dr. Burney has an Audience of the King and Queen—The
King's Bounty to Mrs. Delany—Miss Burney Visits Windsor—Meets the King
and Queen—'Evelina'—Invention Exhausted—The King's Opinion of
Voltaire, Rousseau, and Shakespeare—The Queen and Bookstalls—
Expectation—Journey to Windsor—The Terrace—Dr. Burney's
Disappointment—Proposal of the Queen to Miss Burney—Doubts and Fears—
An Interview—The Decision—Mistaken Criticism—Burke's Opinion—A
Misconception—Horace Walpole's Regret—Miss Burney's Journals of her
Life at Court—Sketches of Character—The King and Queen—Mrs.
Schwellenberg—The Queen's Lodge—Miss Burney's Apartments—A Day's
Duties—Royal Snuff—Fictitious Names in the Diary—The Princesses—A
Royal Birthday—A Walk on the Terrace—The Infant Princess Amelia.
We have mentioned Mrs. Delany in our list of the more remarkable friends
made by Miss Burney during the winter succeeding the publication of
'Cecilia.' Burke followed a fashion then prevalent when he pronounced
this venerable lady the fairest model of female excellence in the
previous age. Mrs. Delany owed her distinction in a great measure to the
favour which she enjoyed with the royal family. Born in 1700, she was
early instructed in the ways of a Court, having been brought up by an
aunt who had been maid-of-honour to Queen Mary, and had received for her
charge the promise of a similar employment in the household of Queen
Anne. Having missed this promotion, the girl next fell into the hands of
her uncle, George Granville, Lord Lansdowne, who, though celebrated by
Pope as 'the friend of every Muse,' was not gentleman enough to treat
his brother's child with decent consideration. He forced Mary Granville,
at seventeen, into a marriage with Alexander Pendarves, a Cornish squire
near sixty, of drunken habits and morose manners, who sought the match
chiefly to disappoint his expectant heir. After a few years, this worthy
died of a fit, to the great relief of all belonging to him, but,
unfortunately for his wife, without having made the provision for her
which, to do him justice, he appears to have intended. Some time later
the widow paid a visit to Ireland, where she became acquainted with Dean
Swift, and his intimate associate, Dr. Patrick Delany, who was famed as
a scholar and preacher. After her return, Swift exchanged occasional
letters with her so long as he retained his reason. In 1743, Dr. Delany,
then himself a widower, came over to England to offer himself to her in
marriage. She accepted him, in spite of her family, whose high stomach
rose against a _mésalliance_ with an Irish parson. Their influence,
however, was subsequently used to procure for Delany the deanery of
Down. On his death, which occurred in 1768, Mrs. Delany settled in
London, and, at the time when Miss Burney was introduced to her, had a
house in St. James's Place. Her most intimate friend was the old Duchess
of Portland, with whom she regularly spent the summer at her Grace's
dower house of Bulstrode. There she was presented to George III. and his
Queen, both of whom conceived a strong regard for her. The King called
her his dearest Mrs. Delany, and in 1782 commissioned Opie to paint her
portrait, which was placed at Hampton Court.[61]
While Frances Burney was having her first interview with Mrs. Delany,
the Dowager Duchess of Portland condescended to appear upon the scene.
This exalted personage, we are given to understand, had a natural
aversion to female novel-writers, but, at her friend's request,
consented to receive homage from the author of 'Cecilia.' Her curiosity,
in fact, got the better of her pride. Before her arrival, the
conversation turned on the flower-work for which Mrs. Delany was famous
among her acquaintances. This was a kind of paper mosaic, invented by
the old lady, and practised by her until her eyesight failed. Some
specimens of it were thought worthy of being offered, as a tribute of
humble duty, to Queen Charlotte. The admiration freely bestowed on this
trumpery, and the doubtful reception accorded to literary merit in a
woman, illustrate the tone which prevailed in the highest society a
hundred years ago. To cut out bits of paper, and paste them
together on the leaf of an album so as to resemble flowers, was
considered a wonderful achievement even for a paragon of her sex. To
have written the best work of imagination that had proceeded from a
female pen was held to confer only an equivocal title to eminence. The
Duchess, however, exerted herself to be civil. 'She was a simple woman,'
says Walpole; but she did her best. She joined Mrs. Delany in recalling
the characters that had pleased them most in 'Cecilia;' she dwelt on the
spirit of the writing, the fire in the composition, and, 'with a solemn
sort of voice,' declared herself gratified by the morality of the book,
'so striking, so pure, so genuine, so instructive.' Fanny, always
impressed by grandeur, eager after praise, thankful for notice, was
charmed with these compliments. She found her Grace's manner not merely
free from arrogance, but 'free also from its mortifying deputy,
affability.' Yet the worship of rank, which belonged to that age, was,
in little Miss Burney, always subordinate to better feelings. In her
eyes the dignified visitor appeared by no means so interesting as her
hostess.[62] Nor was it any air of courtliness that attracted her in
Mrs. Delany, but a simple domestic association. Though not a person of
genius, or, it should seem, of any extraordinary cultivation, this
veteran of English and Irish society had preserved an unsullied, gentle,
kindly spirit which showed itself in her face and carriage. Fanny could
not remember to have seen so much sweetness of countenance in anyone
except her own grandmother, Mrs. Sleepe. She at once began to trace, or
to imagine, a resemblance between 'that saint-like woman' and her new
friend, and gave herself up to the tenderness which the current of her
thoughts excited.
Besides this similarity, she bethought her of another recollection which
she could with propriety impart to the ladies before her. She had often
heard Mr. Crisp speak of his former intercourse with the Duchess and
Mrs. Delany. The latter, she learned on inquiry, had been chiefly
intimate with Crisp's sisters; but the Duchess had known Crisp himself
well, and was curious to learn what had become of so agreeable and
accomplished a man. Her questions gave the shy, silent Fanny a theme on
which she could enlarge with animation. 'I spared not,' she writes, 'for
boasting of my dear daddy's kindness to me.' The accounts she had
received from the Crisp family, she told Mrs. Delany, had first made her
desire the acquaintance that day commenced. She ran on to relate the
story of Crisp's disappearance, painted his way of life in his retreat,
and entertained the company with a description of Chesington Hall, its
isolated and lonely position, its ruinous condition, its nearly
inaccessible roads, its quaint old pictures, and straight long garden
paths.[63] Her flow of spirits banished all reserve, and that evening
laid the foundations of a friendship that partly consoled her for the
death of Crisp and the desertion of Mrs. Thrale.
The attachment between Mrs. Delany and the favourite of Chesington and
Streatham grew up rapidly. The entries in Fanny's Diary show that she
very soon became a constant visitor in St. James's Place. She is
flattered at being so much in favour there as to find its mistress
always eager to fix a time for their next and next meeting. Yet, while
profuse in praise of her venerable friend, she dwells more on the
qualities of the old lady's heart than on any accomplishments of mind or
manner; she loves even more than she admires her; possibly some touches
of high-breeding were lost on the music-master's daughter; at any rate,
the first impression abides with her, and in the noted pattern of
antique polish and taste[64] she sees always the image of the departed
Mrs. Sleepe.
Except in the presence of her young grand-niece Mary Port,[65] Mrs.
Delany's house had little charm of liveliness. The chief persons that
frequented it belonged to the same generation as the Duchess of
Portland, who spent most of her evenings there. A sombre figure in that
peculiar assembly was Lady Wallingford, the impoverished widow of a
gaming peer, and a daughter of the speculator Law. This lady, who never
opened her lips, invariably appeared in full mourning dress, wearing a
black silk robe, a hoop, long ruffles, a winged cap, and other
appendages of an attire that even then was obsolete. Another visitor was
the Countess of Bute, wife of George III.'s early favourite, and
daughter of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. The elderly wit Horace Walpole
often joined a circle in which his old-fashioned pleasantry was still
received with the old applause. Fanny, who had met him elsewhere,
thought that he never showed to such advantage as when surrounded by
those stately dowagers. And while Horace, and most of the other callers,
had, more or less, the air of having outlived their age, the lady to
whom they paid their respects had passed the better portion of her life
in a still more remote period. She encouraged Miss Burney to turn over
Swift's letters to her; and her most interesting anecdotes related to
the days of the Dean, and Pope, and Young.
Perhaps it was, in part, some memory of the time when she herself had
shared the talk of men of letters, that made her take to the young
writer who had done more to raise the literary credit of women than Mrs.
Montagu, or Hannah More, or the whole tribe of blue-stockings united.
The admired of Johnson, Burke and Reynolds was both a more entertaining
guest, and a greater ornament to her drawing-room, than the respectable
Mrs. Chapone, the learned Mrs. Carter, or even 'the high-bred, elegant'
Mrs. Boscawen. And, whatever may have been said at a later date by
distant connections of Mrs. Delany, soured by a peevish family pride
which _she_ disdained, her own published letters prove that she not
merely appreciated Fanny's talents, but understood and valued her
character. At one time she declares that 'Evelina' and 'Cecilia,'
excellent as she finds them, are their author's meanest praise, and goes
on to extol 'her admirable understanding, tender affection and sweetness
of manners;' after three years' experience she writes of her companion:
'Her extreme diffidence of herself, notwithstanding her great genius,
and the applause she has met with, adds lustre to all her excellences,
and all improve on acquaintance.' It is scarcely too much to say that
the correspondence in which these lines occur would never have been
printed but for Miss Burney. The love and esteem expressed in her Diary
have almost alone saved Mrs. Delany's name from utter oblivion; it would
be strange indeed had such regard gone unrequited by its object.
Frances Burney had certainly a remarkable capacity for friendship. Not
long after her introduction in St. James's Place, she formed another
acquaintance, which ripened steadily, and became, on Mrs. Delany's
death, the chief intimacy of her life outside her own family. It seems
to have been in the summer of 1783 that Dr. Burney and his now
celebrated daughter first met with Mr. and Mrs. Locke, of Norbury Park.
From some cause or other, we do not get so vivid a picture of these
worthy persons as we do of most of Fanny's other friends. This is
perhaps partly explained by the fact that Mr. Locke was a man of
reserved and retiring temperament. But though silent in general society,
he had a benevolent heart and a cultivated taste; was a great lover of
the picturesque, and a collector of works of art. Dr. Burney paid his
first visit to Norbury in company with Sir Joshua Reynolds; and many
years afterwards Sir Thomas Lawrence told Madame d'Arblay that in all
his experience he had never seen a second Mr. Locke. The eldest son of
the house, William Locke, was an amateur artist of some skill. Miss
Burney's particular friend was, naturally, Mrs. Locke. The sketch
transmitted to us of this lady is even more faint than that of her
husband, whom, we are told, she strongly resembled. She was lovely, of
course, and amiable: Fanny sometimes calls her bewitching; but we search
in vain for anything more distinctive. After the summer of 1784, Miss
Burney, except during her employment at Court, was often at Norbury. It
pleased her to think that when there she was only six miles from
Chesington. And while the place was still new to her, her sister Susan,
who had been abroad for her health, returned, and settled with her
husband, Captain Phillips, in the village of Mickleham, hard by the
gates of Norbury Park. Thenceforth the Park banished all regrets for
Streatham. The Thrales themselves were never more hospitable or kinder
than the excellent Lockes proved to be. If we cannot get to know the
latter as we know the former, it is a satisfaction, at least, to learn
that Mr. Smelt, who had been sub-governor to the Prince of Wales, spoke
of them to Fanny as 'that divine family.'
Mr. Smelt, previously a slight acquaintance of the Burneys, had lately
shown a disposition to cultivate their society. Such attention on the
part of a confidential royal servant, though easily accounted for by the
fame of 'Cecilia,' was among the omens which befell about this time of
what the fates had in store for the author. Another premonitory incident
occurred at the beginning of 1785, when Dr. Burney was admitted to a
private audience of the King and Queen, in order that he might present
to them copies of his narrative of the Handel Commemoration, which had
taken place in the preceding year. The good-natured monarch, according
to his wont on such occasions, entered into a familiar and discursive
conversation with the Doctor. The last topic discussed was the story of
the publication of Evelina. 'And is it true,' asked the King eagerly,
'that you never saw Evelina before it was printed?' 'Nor even till long
after it was published,' was the reply. The King then drew from the
gratified father a detailed account of Evelina's first introduction to
the world, which, as the Doctor reported, afforded the greatest
amusement to the Queen, as well as to his inquiring Majesty.
The old Duchess of Portland died in July, 1785. Her will made no
provision for her older friend, whom no doubt she had expected to
survive; and this accident indirectly determined the great mistake of
Miss Burney's life. The loss of her summer quarters at Bulstrode, which
for the half of every year had been her constant home, was a serious
inconvenience for Mrs. Delany, whose income barely sufficed for the
maintenance of her London establishment during the winter. Informed of
this, the King caused a house belonging to the Crown at Windsor, near
the Castle, to be fitted up for the use of his aged favourite, and
settled a pension of three hundred pounds a year upon her for the rest
of her days, that she might be enabled to enjoy a country life without
giving up her accustomed residence in St. James's Place. The royal
bounty was so complete that Mrs. Delany's maid was commanded to see that
her mistress brought nothing with her but her clothes: everything else
was to be provided; and when supplies were exhausted, the abigail was to
make a requisition for more. The King himself superintended the workmen:
when his new neighbour arrived, he was on the spot to welcome her; and
she found that her benefactor had not only caused the house to be
furnished with plate, china, glass, and linen, but the cellars to be
stocked with wine, and the cupboards stored with sweetmeats and
pickles.[66] Such was the plainness, and such the generosity, of George
III.
Miss Burney was on a visit to her friend while these arrangements were
in progress; when the latter left London for Windsor, she herself went
to her father at Chesington Hall, in which old haunt Dr. Burney was then
employed on his still unfinished History. In the following December,
Fanny rejoined Mrs. Delany at Windsor, and during her stay there was
introduced to the King and Queen. It seems that etiquette forbade her
being formally presented to them, except at a drawing-room; but they
were desirous of making her acquaintance, and it was at length arranged
that when next their Majesties called on her hostess, as they were in
the habit of doing, she should remain in the room. On the first occasion
that occurred, her courage failed her at the critical moment, and she
fled. A few days later, Mrs. Delany returned from her afternoon nap to
find her nephew, Mr. Bernard Dewes, his little daughter, and Miss Port,
engaged in the drawing-room with Miss Burney, who was teaching the child
some Christmas games, in which her father and cousin joined. The Diary
proceeds:
"We were all in the middle of the room, and in some confusion;—but she
had but just come up to us to inquire what was going forwards, and I
was disentangling myself from Miss Dewes, to be ready to fly off if
anyone knocked at the street-door, when the door of the drawing-room
was again opened, and a large man, in deep mourning, appeared at it,
entering and shutting it himself without speaking.
"A ghost could not more have scared me, when I discovered by its
glitter on the black, a star! The general disorder had prevented his
being seen, except by myself, who was always on the watch, till Miss
Port, turning round, exclaimed, 'The King!—Aunt, the King!'
"Oh, mercy! thought I, that I were but out of the room! which way
shall I escape? and how pass him unnoticed? There is but the single
door at which he entered, in the room! Everyone scampered out of the
way: Miss Port, to stand next the door; Mr. Bernard Dewes to a corner
opposite it; his little girl clung to me; and Mrs. Delany advanced to
meet his Majesty, who, after quietly looking on till she saw him,
approached, and, inquired how she did.
"He then spoke to Mr. Bernard, whom he had already met two or three
times here.
"I had now retreated to the wall, and purposed gliding softly, though
speedily, out of the room; but before I had taken a single step, the
King, in a loud whisper to Mrs. Delany, said, 'Is that Miss Burney?'—
and on her answering, 'Yes, sir,' he bowed, and with a countenance of
the most perfect good humour, came close up to me."
Having put a question to her, and received an inaudible reply, he went
back to Mrs. Delany, and spoke of the Princess Elizabeth, who,
incredible as it sounds, was then recovering from an illness after
having been blooded twelve times in a fortnight:
"A good deal of talk then followed about his own health, and the
extreme temperance by which he preserved it. The fault of his
constitution, he said, was a tendency to excessive fat, which he kept,
however, in order by the most vigorous exercise, and the strictest
attention to a simple diet.
"When Mrs. Delany was beginning to praise his forbearance, he stopped
her.
"'No, no,' he cried, ''tis no virtue; I only prefer eating plain and
little, to growing diseased and infirm.'
"During this discourse, I stood quietly in the place where he had
first spoken to me. His quitting me so soon, and conversing freely and
easily with Mrs. Delany, proved so delightful a relief to me, that I
no longer wished myself away; and the moment my first panic from the
surprise was over, I diverted myself with a thousand ridiculous
notions of my own situation.
"The Christmas games we had been showing Miss Dewes, it seemed as if
we were still performing, as none of us thought it proper to move,
though our manner of standing reminded one of Puss in the corner.
Close to the door was posted Miss Port; opposite her, close to the
wainscot, stood Mr. Dewes; at just an equal distance from him, close
to a window, stood myself; Mrs. Delany, though seated, was at the
opposite side to Miss Port; and his Majesty kept pretty much in the
middle of the room. The little girl, who kept close to me, did not
break the order, and I could hardly help expecting to be beckoned,
with a puss! puss! puss! to change places with one of my neighbours.
"This idea, afterwards, gave way to another more pompous. It seemed to
me we were acting a play. There is something so little like common and
real life, in everybody's standing, while talking, in a room full of
chairs, and standing, too, so aloof from each other, that I almost
thought myself upon a stage, assisting in the representation of a
tragedy—in which the King played his own part of the king; Mrs. Delany
that of a venerable confidante; Mr. Dewes, his respectful attendant;
Miss Port, a suppliant virgin, waiting encouragement to bring forward
some petition; Miss Dewes, a young orphan, intended to move the royal
compassion; and myself, a very solemn, sober, and decent mute.
"These fancies, however, only regaled me while I continued a quiet
spectator, and without expectation of being called into play. But the
King, I have reason to think, meant only to give me time to recover
from my first embarrassment; and I feel myself infinitely obliged to
his good breeding and consideration, which perfectly answered, for
before he returned to me I was entirely recruited....
"The King went up to the table, and looked at a book of prints, from
Claude Lorraine, which had been brought down for Miss Dewes; but Mrs.
Delany, by mistake, told him they were for me. He turned over a leaf
or two, and then said:
"'Pray, does Miss Burney draw too?'
"The _too_ was pronounced very civilly.
"'I believe not, sir,' answered Mrs. Delany; 'at least, she does not
tell.'
"'Oh!' cried he, laughing, 'that's nothing! She is not apt to tell;
she never does tell, you know! Her father told me that himself. He
told me the whole history of her Evelina. And I shall never forget his
face when he spoke of his feelings at first taking up the book!—he
looked quite frightened, just as if he was doing it that moment! I
never can forget his face while I live!'
"Then coming up close to me, he said:
"'But what?—what?—how was it?'
"'Sir,' cried I, not well understanding him.
"'How came you—how happened it?—what?—what?
"'I—I only wrote, sir, for my own amusement—only in some odd, idle
hours.'
"'But your publishing—your printing—how was that?'
"'That was only, sir—only because——'
"I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long
story, and growing terribly confused at these questions—besides, to
say the truth, his own "what? what?" so reminded me of those vile
Probationary Odes,[67] that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was
really hardly able to keep my countenance.
"The _What!_ was then repeated with so earnest a look, that, forced to
say something, I stammeringly answered:
"'I thought—sir—it would look very well in print!'
"I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made! I
am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of laughing made me
eager to utter anything, and by no means conscious, till I had spoken,
of what I was saying.
"He laughed very heartily himself—well he might—and walked away to
enjoy it, crying out:
"'Very fair indeed! that's being very fair and honest!'
"Then, returning to me again, he said:
"'But your father—how came you not to show him what you wrote?'
"'I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously.'
"Literal truth that, I am sure.
"'And how did he find it out?'
"'I don't know myself, sir. He never would tell me.'...
"'What entertainment you must have had from hearing people's
conjectures before you were known! Do you remember any of them?'...
"'I heard that Mr. Baretti laid a wager it was written by a man; for
no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel.'
"This diverted him extremely.
"'But how was it,' he continued, 'you thought most likely for your
father to discover you?'
"'Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropped some of the
manuscript: sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.'
"'Oh! your sister?—what, not your brother?'
"'No, sir; he could not, for——'
"I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard,
exclaiming:
"'Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti's mind, and think your
brother could keep your secret, and not your sister.... But you have
not kept your pen unemployed all this time?'
"'Indeed I have, sir.'
"'But why?'
"'I—I believe I have exhausted myself, sir.'
"He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany,
civilly treating a plain fact as a mere _bon mot_."
The King asked several other questions about Evelina, and the prospect
of anything further appearing from the author's pen. A change of subject
led to the mention of hunting, when, looking round on the party, he
said: 'Did you know that Mrs. Delany once hunted herself, and in a long
gown and a great hoop?' As he spoke, a violent thunder was heard at the
door. Fanny again felt herself sinking into the carpet. Miss Port slid
out of the room backwards, and lights shone in the hall. Enter the
Queen. Her Majesty drops a profound reverence to the King, holds out
both hands to her dear Mrs. Delany, and then turns her face on the
short-sighted stranger, who, uncertain whether she has received a salute
or not, is bewildered what to do. The King comes to her relief, repeats
to his consort all that Miss Burney has already told him, and proceeds
with a further catechism. The Queen, more curious about the future than
the past, has questions of her own to put. 'Shall we have no more?—
nothing more?' she asks. Fanny can only shake her head in reply, and
when gracious phrases of regret and encouragement are uttered, is unable
to find a word of acknowledgment. Presently the conversation, becoming
general, ranges over a variety of topics, from the exemplary behaviour
of the Princess Sophia, aged nearly nine, in guarding her music-master's
great nose from ridicule, to Bishop Porteous's sermons, which the King
thought that admired preacher would do wrong to publish, because every
discourse printed would diminish his stock for the pulpit.
Three days later the King made an evening visit. The Diary describes the
mode of his reception on these occasions. 'The etiquette always observed
on his entrance is, first of all, to fly off to distant quarters; and
next, Miss Port goes out, walking backwards, for more candles, which she
brings in, two at a time, and places upon the tables and pianoforte.
Next she goes out for tea, which she then carries to his Majesty, upon a
large salver, containing sugar, cream, and bread and butter and cake,
while she hangs a napkin over her arm for his fingers. This, it seems,
is a ceremony performed, in other places, always by the mistress of the
house; but here neither of their Majesties will permit Mrs. Delany to
attempt it.' While drinking his tea, the King ran on, in his usual
discursive vein, about authors, actors, books, and plays. Concerning the
tendency of Voltaire's works, and the personal character of Rousseau, he
expressed the current opinions of English society; calling the former a
monster, and telling anecdotes to illustrate 'the savage pride and
insolent ingratitude' of the latter. He vexed Miss Burney by pronouncing
Mrs. Siddons the most excellent player of his time, not even excepting
the divine Garrick. From players he went to plays, and having deplored
the immorality of the old English comedies, and the poverty of the new
ones, he came at length to Shakspeare.
"'Was there ever,' cried he, 'such stuff as great part of Shakspeare?
only one must not say so! But what think you? What? Is there not sad
stuff? What? What?'
"'Yes, indeed, I think so, sir, though mixed with such excellences,
that——'
"'Oh!' cried he, laughing good-humouredly; 'I know it is not to be said!
but it's true. Only it's Shakspeare, and nobody dares abuse him.'
"Then he enumerated many of the characters and parts of plays that he
objected to; and, when he had run them over, finished with again
laughing, and exclaiming: 'But one should be stoned for saying so!'"
The following afternoon, the Queen came, and was also in a mood for
literary criticism. She talked of the 'Sorrows of Werter,' and
Klopstock's 'Messiah,' and mentioned, with praise, another book, saying:
'I picked it up on a stall. Oh, it is amazing what good books there are
on stalls!'
'It is amazing to me,' said Mrs. Delany, 'to hear that.'
'Why, I don't pick them up myself; but I have a servant very clever; and
if they are not to be had at the bookseller's, they are not for me any
more than for another.'
In May, 1786, the Mastership of the King's Band, which had formerly been
promised to Dr. Burney, once more became vacant. The Doctor was again a
candidate for the appointment. We gather from his having accepted so
small a post as that of Organist to Chelsea Hospital, and from some
other indications, that his circumstances had not improved as he grew
older. He was now sixty years of age: he must have found the work of
tuition at once less easy to be met with, and more laborious to
discharge, than it had been in his younger days; we cannot be mistaken
in supposing that he was eager to obtain, not merely promotion, but also
some permanent and lighter occupation. In his anxiety he had recourse to
Mr. Smelt, who counselled him to go to Windsor, not to address the King,
but to be seen by him. 'Take your daughter in your hand,' said the
experienced courtier, 'and walk upon the Terrace. Your appearing there
at this time the King will understand, and he is more likely to be
touched by such a hint than by any direct application.' Burney lost no
time in acting on the advice thus given. When he and Fanny reached the
Terrace in the evening, they found the Royal Family already there. The
King and Queen, the Queen's mother, and the Prince of Mecklenburg, her
Majesty's brother, all walked together. Behind them followed six lovely
young princesses,[68] with their ladies and some of the young princes,
making, in the eyes of loyal subjects, 'a very gay and pleasing
procession of one of the finest families in the world.' "Every way they
moved," continues the narrator, "the crowd retired to stand up against
the wall as they passed, and then closed in to follow. When they
approached, and we were retreating, Lady Louisa Clayton placed me next
herself, making her daughters stand below—without which I had certainly
not been seen; for the moment their Majesties advanced, I involuntarily
looked down, and drew my hat over my face. I could not endure to stare
at them; and, full of our real errand, I felt ashamed even of being seen
by them. Consequently, I should have stood in the herd, and unregarded;
but Lady Louisa's kindness and good breeding put me in a place too
conspicuous to pass unnoticed. The moment the Queen had spoken to her,
which she stopped to do as soon as she came up to her, she inquired, in
a whisper, who was with her. The Queen then instantly stepped near me,
and asked me how I did; and then the King came forward, and, as soon as
he had repeated the same question, said:
"'Are you come to stay?'
"'No, sir; not now.'
"'I was sure,' cried the Queen, 'she was not come to stay, by seeing her
father!'
"I was glad by this to know my father had been observed.
"'And when,' asked the King, 'do you return again to Windsor?'
"'Very soon, I hope, sir.'
"'And—and—and,' cried he, half laughing and hesitating significantly,
'pray, how goes on the Muse?'
"At first I only laughed too; but he repeated the inquiry, and then I
answered:
"'Not at all, sir.'
"'No? But why?—why not?'
"'I—I—I am afraid, sir,' stammered I.
"'And why?' repeated he;—'of what?'
"I spoke something—I hardly know what myself—so indistinctly that he
could not hear me, though he had put his head quite under my hat from
the beginning of the little conference; and after another such question
or two, and no greater satisfaction in the answer, he smiled very
good-humouredly, and walked on, his Queen by his side.
"We stayed some time longer on the Terrace, and my poor father
occasionally joined me; but he looked so conscious and depressed that it
pained me to see him. He was not spoken to, though he had a bow every
time the King passed him, and a curtsey from the Queen. But it hurt him,
and he thought it a very bad prognostic; and all there was at all to
build upon was the graciousness shown to me." Much dejected, the Doctor
posted back to town with his daughter; and, on reaching home, heard that
the place he sought had been disposed of by the Lord Chamberlain, in
whose gift it was.
Miss Burney was persuaded that the King was displeased with the action
of his official, but we venture to doubt the correctness of her belief.
Beyond question, Mr. Smelt had had good reason for implying that the
daughter, rather than the father, was the object of favour at Windsor.
Dr. Burney was by no means a sound enough Handelian to satisfy George
III. And, to say the truth, the account of the Handel Centenary Festival
was but a poor performance. On the other hand, Fanny's literary success,
and her manner of carrying it, had pleased and interested the royal
pair. It is probable, if not absolutely certain, that the design of
finding her some employment at Court had already been entertained, and
that this was considered to render her father's suit for himself
inopportune.
The first thought was to settle her with one of the princesses, in
preference to the numerous candidates of high birth and station, but
small fortune, who were waiting and supplicating for places about the
persons of the King's daughters. But in the month following Dr. Burney's
disappointment, a vacancy occurred in the Queen's own Household. The
office of Keeper of the Robes was jointly held by two Germans, Mrs.
Schwellenberg and Mrs. Haggerdorn, who had accompanied Charlotte of
Mecklenburg-Strelitz, when she came to England. The health of Mrs.
Haggerdorn broke down about this time, and in June, 1786, it was
arranged that she should retire, and return to her own country. Who
should succeed her was a matter of eager speculation and fierce
competition in Court circles; but without consulting anyone, the Queen
commissioned Mr. Smelt to make an offer to Frances Burney. This trusted
agent was instructed to express her Majesty's wish to attach the young
lady permanently to herself and her family: he was to propose to her to
undertake certain duties, which were in fact those of Mrs. Haggerdorn;
and he was to intimate that in case of her accepting the situation
designed for her, she would have apartments in the palace, would belong
to the table of Mrs. Schwellenberg, with whom the Queen's own visitors—
bishops, lords, or commons—always dined; would be allowed a separate
footman, and the use of a carriage in common with her senior colleague;
and would receive a salary of two hundred pounds a year.
Fanny listened, and was struck with consternation. "The attendance," she
wrote to her dear Miss Cambridge, "was to be incessant, the confinement
to the Court continual; I was scarce ever to be spared for a single
visit from the palaces, nor to receive anybody but with permission; and
what a life for me, who have friends so dear to me, and to whom
friendship is the balm, the comfort, the very support of existence!' It
was not the sacrifice of literary prospects that alarmed her. She did
not even think of 'those distinguished men and women, the flower of all
political parties, with whom she had been in the habit of mixing on
terms of equal intercourse,'[69] and from whose society she would be
exiled. Her mind dwelt only on the pain of being separated from her
family and intimate friends: from Susan and the Lockes; from the old
familiar faces at Chesington; from her sister Charlotte, now married and
settled in Norfolk; from her correspondent at Twickenham. 'I have no
heart,' she says, 'to write to Mickleham or Norbury. I know how they
will grieve: they have expected me to spend the whole summer with them.'
Good Mr. Smelt, who, in the words of Macaulay, seems to have thought
that going to Court was like going to heaven, was equally surprised and
mortified at the mournful reception accorded to his flattering
proposals. Mrs. Delany, in whose town house they were delivered, was not
less astounded. The recipient, however, had but one thought, that, which
ever way her own feelings inclined, the matter must be referred to her
father, as the only person entitled to decide it. Dr. Burney, as might
have been anticipated, was enraptured by the honour done to his family,
and the vista which, in his sanguine view, was opened before his
daughter. Meanwhile, Mr. Smelt had gone down to Windsor, and brought
back word that the Queen desired a personal interview with Miss Burney.
Fanny had her audience, and it ended, as she foresaw must be the case,
in her submission. When her Majesty said, with the most condescending
softness, 'I am sure, Miss Burney, we shall suit one another very well,'
there was nothing to be done, but to make a humble reverence, and
accept. The Queen told Mrs. Delany: 'I was led to think of Miss Burney,
first by her books, then by seeing her; then by always hearing how she
was loved by her friends; but chiefly by your friendship for her.'
Of course, the proposition and the acceptance were alike mistaken. The
service required was unworthy of the servant, nor was she competent for
the service. On the one hand, the talents of a brilliant writer were
thrown away in a situation where writing was neither expected nor
desired. On the other, a novice of puny figure, imperfect sight, extreme
nervousness, and small aptitude for ordinary feminine duties, was most
unlikely to become distinguished in the profession of a
lady-in-attendance. Under the most favourable circumstances, the gains
and advantages attached to her constrained life at Court were not to be
compared with those which might be looked for from the diligent use of
her pen in the freedom of home. Yet allowing all this, we cannot
disguise from ourselves that much heedless rhetoric has been expended by
several critics on the folly of Miss Burney's choice, and the
infatuation of her parent. These critics, we conceive, have been led
astray, partly by those more extreme trials of her servitude which no
prudence could have foreseen, but principally by an erroneous estimate
of her position at the time when she closed with the Queen's offer.
The picture which has been imagined of Frances Burney sending forth, at
short intervals, a series of 'Cecilias,' and receiving for each a cheque
of two thousand guineas, is attractive, but purely visionary. It would,
we venture to say, have tickled her fine sense of humour amazingly. We
are not to think of her as of a favourite novelist of to-day, whom the
booksellers and the editors of magazines conspire to keep constantly
employed. Her longing to see herself in print seems to have been
satiated by the appearance of 'Evelina.' Her second work was a much less
spontaneous production. Indeed, it is not clear that 'Cecilia' would
have been written but for the urgency of Crisp, seconded by other
friends. Her two fathers were agreed that she ought to exert herself
while her powers and her fame were fresh; but how much stimulus was
applied after Crisp's death, we are not informed. Hers was not a very
energetic nature, and she had some misgiving that her invention was
exhausted. At any rate, she had now let four years go by without
attempting anything new. Her third book was not published for the space
of a lustrum after her release from Court, and then only under strong
pressure of the _res angusta domi_. There had been some talk of laying
out the amount paid for 'Cecilia' in the purchase of an annuity. But we
do not find that this saving plan was executed. What has been
contemptuously called 'board, lodging, and two hundred a year,' was no
bad provision for a single lady of thirty-four, who was producing
nothing, and had no income of her own. Boswell, it is true, declared
that he would farm her out himself for double or treble the money; but
then Boswell did not know a great deal of female authors. Burney was
much better aware what to expect from his daughter's enterprise and
resolution; and we are by no means sure that, in accepting for her the
offered place, he proved himself a less practical man than the
'irresponsible reviewers' who have derided him as a moon-struck
worshipper of royalty. Burke, who certainly did not undervalue Miss
Burney, and who knew something of her family circumstances, was
delighted at the news, and thought that the Queen had never shown more
good sense than in appointing Miss Burney to her service; though he
afterwards owned to having miscalculated, when the service turned out to
mean confinement to such a companion as Mrs. Schwellenberg.
But neither the irksomeness of the duty, nor the character of Mrs.
Schwellenberg, was known to the outer world. Both required experience to
make them understood. How by degrees they disclosed themselves to Miss
Burney, we shall learn presently. For the feud which sprang up between
the two ladies, it must, in fairness, be owned that the elder was not
wholly answerable. Miss Burney—we ought now properly to call her Mrs.
Burney—had been appointed second Keeper of the Robes. She seems to have
supposed that this put her on a level with Mrs. Schwellenberg, giving
the latter the advantage of formal precedence only. But whatever had
been the relation of Mrs. Haggerdorn to her colleague, it appears clear
that Fanny, a much younger, and quite inexperienced person, was intended
to be subordinate. Thus, when she expresses a fear that, by want of
spirit to assert it, she had lost a right to invite guests to table, we
cannot but remember that, in the terms proposed to her, the table had
been described as Mrs. Schwellenberg's. The chief Keeper, as we shall
see, was coarse and offensive in speech, domineering and tyrannical in
action, but her junior sometimes resented a tone of superiority and
command which their royal mistress evidently thought natural and
reasonable.
Whatever injury Miss Burney may have sustained by entering the palace,
her readers at least have no cause to complain. 'I am glad for _her_
interest,' wrote Walpole, 'though sorry for my own, that Evelina and
Cecilia are to be transformed into a Madame de Motteville, as I shall
certainly not live to read her Memoirs, though I might another novel.'
But what was to Horace a source of regret, may be to us matter for
congratulation. Fanny's Diaries are now much more studied than her
novels. Few of us would wish to exchange the journal of her life at
Court for another fiction from her pen. The Harrels, the Delvilles, the
Briggses, about whom Burke and Reynolds and Mrs. Delany talked as if
they were real personages, are for most of us names that call up no
association. Queen Charlotte and stout King George are better known to
us than any other royal pair mentioned in English history. And for this
we are in great measure indebted to the little lady who joined their
household in July, 1786. The likeness of the Queen, which we remember as
well as we do the features of our mothers, is entirely of her drawing;
while she contributes not a few of the sketches which are combined in
our impression of the monarch who loved music, and backgammon, and
homely chat, and Ogden's sermons, as much as he detested popery, and
whiggery, and freethinking, and Wilkes. Nor are characters of another
kind wanting in this journal. Mrs. Schwellenberg's arrogance, her
insolence, her peevishness, her ferocious selfishness, her broken
English, are more familiar to the present generation than the humours,
the affectations, the piebald dialect of Madame Duval, or than the
traits of any of the other figures in Evelina. The Senior Robe-keeper
was no doubt as indifferent to posthumous reputation as she was to the
contemporary opinion of all who could not displace her. That she ran any
risk from the satire of her timorous assistant was a thought which never
occurred to her illiterate mind. She hardly knew what satire meant. She
flattered herself that Harry Bunbury could not caricature her because
she had no hump. For writers of imagination she had an unbounded
contempt. 'I won't have nothing what you call novels,' she once cried in
Fanny's presence, 'what you call romances, what you call histories—I
might not read such what you call stuff—not I!' Had she been one degree
less callous, or one degree less ignorant, she might have been slower to
provoke the hostility of Johnson's 'little character-monger.' Well! we
have her portrait, most carefully executed. And we have also, by the
same cunning hand, vivid delineations of many other persons, more or
less notable, and of several interesting scenes that fell under the
artist's view during her connection with the Queen. We do not go to Miss
Burney's record of those five years for secrets of state, or politics,
or even Court scandal—with which last, indeed, she seems to have busied
herself as little as with the first two—but for a picture of the
domestic life and manners of the Sovereign and his consort. It is no
small proof of the journalist's tact and discretion that she was able to
produce so candid a narrative of what she experienced and witnessed
without giving offence to the family concerned. The Duke of Sussex is
reported to have said, that he and the other surviving children of
George III. had been alarmed when the Diaries of Madame d'Arblay were
announced for publication, but pleased with the book when it appeared;
'though I think,' added his Royal Highness, 'that she is rather hard on
poor old Schwellenberg.' The Duke, of course, had seen the Schwellenberg
only in her part of an abject toad-eater. Yet there may be something in
his observation. Fanny had a light touch, but, like other women, was
unforgiving towards an enemy of her own sex.
Our readers must not suppose that Miss Burney, on her appointment, went
to live in Windsor Castle. Some years before that time, the Castle had
been forsaken by the royal family as uninhabitable. A sort of makeshift
palace, known as the Upper Lodge, or the Queen's Lodge,[70] was erected
hard by, opposite the South Terrace; a long narrow building, with
battlements fronting northward towards the old towers, and southward
towards a walled garden, at the further end of which was placed the
Lower Lodge, a smaller building of similar character, appropriated to
the use of the Princesses. Fanny, as an attendant on the person of the
Queen, was quartered in the Upper Lodge. "My Windsor apartment," she
wrote, "is extremely comfortable. I have a large drawing-room, as they
call it, which is on the ground-floor, as are all the Queen's rooms, and
which faces the Castle and the venerable Round Tower, and opens at the
further side, from the windows, to the Little Park. It is airy,
pleasant, clean, and healthy. My bedroom is small, but neat and
comfortable; its entrance is only from the drawing-room, and it looks to
the garden. These two rooms are delightfully independent of all the rest
of the house, and contain everything I can desire for my convenience and
comfort." The sitting-room had a view of the walk leading to the
Terrace, access to which was obtained by a flight of steps and an iron
gate. Mrs. Delany's door was at a distance of less than fifty yards from
the Queen's Lodge. The paltry and uncomfortable barracks erected under
George III. no longer discredit the Crown of England. The restoration of
Windsor Castle was commenced in 1800, and occupied a good many years.
'In 1823 the Queen's House was pulled down, and the present royal
stables, built in 1839, occupy part of the site. It is, indeed, very
difficult to identify any of the landmarks now; everything has been so
completely changed. The steps and the iron gate, the railings and the
Princesses' garden, have all disappeared as completely as the Upper and
Lower Lodges.'[71]
In the following passage we have a summary of the new Robe-keeper's
usual round of daily duties:
"I rise at six o'clock, dress in a morning gown and cap, and wait my
first summons, which is at all times from seven to near eight, but
commonly in the exact half-hour between them. The Queen never sends for
me till her hair is dressed. This, in a morning, is always done by her
wardrobe-woman, Mrs. Thielky, a German, but who speaks English perfectly
well. Mrs. Schwellenberg, since the first week, has never come down in a
morning at all. The Queen's dress is finished by Mrs. Thielky and
myself. No maid ever enters the room while the Queen is in it. Mrs.
Thielky hands the things to me, and I put them on. 'Tis fortunate for me
I have not the handing them! I should never know which to take first,
embarrassed as I am, and should run a prodigious risk of giving the gown
before the hoop, and the fan before the neckerchief. By eight o'clock,
or a little after, for she is extremely expeditious, she is dressed. She
then goes out to join the King, and be joined by the Princesses, and
they all proceed to the King's chapel in the Castle, to prayers,
attended by the governesses of the Princesses, and the King's equerry.
Various others at times attend; but only these indispensably. I then
return to my own room to breakfast. I make this meal the most pleasant
part of the day; I have a book for my companion, and I allow myself an
hour for it.... At nine o'clock I send off my breakfast-things, and
relinquish my book, to make a serious and steady examination of
everything I have upon my hands in the way of business—in which,
preparations for dress are always included, not for the present day
alone, but for the Court-days, which require a particular dress; for the
next arriving birthday of any of the Royal Family, every one of which
requires new apparel; for Kew, where the dress is plainest; and for
going on here, where the dress is very pleasant to me, requiring no show
nor finery, but merely to be neat, not inelegant, and moderately
fashionable. That over, I have my time at my own disposal till a quarter
before twelve, except on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when I have it only
to a quarter before eleven.... These times mentioned call me to the
irksome and quick-returning labours of the toilette. The hour advanced
on the Wednesdays and Saturdays is for curling and craping the hair,
which it now requires twice a week. A quarter before one is the usual
time for the Queen to begin dressing for the day. Mrs. Schwellenberg
then constantly attends; so do I; Mrs. Thielky, of course, at all times.
We help her off with her gown, and on with her powdering things, and
then the hairdresser is admitted. She generally reads the newspapers
during that operation. When she observes that I have run to her but half
dressed, she constantly gives me leave to return and finish as soon as
she is seated. If she is grave, and reads steadily on, she dismisses me,
whether I am dressed or not; but at all times she never forgets to send
me away while she is powdering, with a consideration not to spoil my
clothes, that one would not expect belonged to her high station. Neither
does she ever detain me without making a point of reading here and there
some little paragraph aloud.... Few minutes elapse ere I am again
summoned. I find her then always removed to her state dressing-room, if
any room in this private mansion can have the epithet of state. There,
in a very short time, her dress is finished. She then says she won't
detain me, and I hear and see no more of her till bedtime....
"At five, we have dinner. Mrs. Schwellenberg and I meet in the
eating-room. We are commonly tête-à-tête.... When we have dined, we go
upstairs to her apartment, which is directly over mine. Here we have
coffee till the _terracing_ is over: this is at about eight o'clock. Our
tête-à-tête then finishes, and we come down again to the eating-room.
There the equerry, whoever he is, comes to tea constantly, and with him
any gentleman that the King or Queen may have invited for the evening;
and when tea is over, he conducts them, and goes himself, to the
concert-room. This is commonly about nine o'clock. From that time, if
Mrs. Schwellenberg is alone, I never quit her for a minute, till I come
to my little supper at near eleven. Between eleven and twelve my last
summons usually takes place, earlier and later occasionally. Twenty
minutes is the customary time then spent with the Queen: half an hour, I
believe, is seldom exceeded. I then come back, and after doing whatever
I can to forward my dress for the next morning, I go to bed—and to
sleep, too, believe me: the early rising, and a long day's attention to
new affairs and occupations, cause a fatigue so bodily, that nothing
mental stands against it, and to sleep I fall the moment I have put out
my candle and laid down my head."
The best-known writer of that day was wounded at first by having to
'answer the bell,' like any chambermaid; and she had cast on her another
burden, which even her loyalty could not consider dignified. She had to
mix the Queen's snuff. To perform this task belonged to her place, and
it was an inflexible rule with her Majesty that discipline must be
preserved. We cannot help thinking that there was a touch of regret in
the King's voice when he said:
'Miss Burney, I hear you cook snuff very well.'
'Miss Burney,' exclaimed the Princess Elizabeth, 'I hope you hate snuff;
for I hate it of all things in the world.'
Thus we see that disaffection lurked even in members of the Royal House.
We pause here for a moment to notice that a precaution adopted by Mrs.
Phillips, in her replies to her sister's _Court Journal_, of giving
fictitious names to some of the persons mentioned, was imitated, when
the Diary was printed, by substituting the names invented by Susan for
the real ones which occurred in the original. Thus, in the published
volumes from which our extracts are taken, Mr. Turbulent stands for M.
de Guiffardière,[72] a clergyman who held the office of French reader to
the Queen and the Princesses; Colonel Welbred is Colonel Greville; and
Colonel Fairly is the Honourable Stephen Digby, who lost his first wife,
a daughter of Lord Ilchester, in 1787, and married Miss Gunning, called
in the Diary Miss Fuzilier, in 1790.
Next to the King and Queen, the most important figures in Fanny's new
life are their fair daughters, the Princesses who inhabited the Lower
Lodge. 'The history of the daughters,' says Thackeray, 'as little Miss
Burney has painted them, is delightful. They were handsome—she calls
them beautiful; they were most kind, loving, and ladylike; they were
gracious to every person, high and low, who served them. They had many
little accomplishments of their own. This one drew: that one played the
piano: they all worked most prodigiously, and fitted up whole suites of
rooms—pretty smiling Penelopes—with their busy little needles.... The
prettiest of all, I think, is the father's darling, the Princess Amelia,
pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and for the
extreme passionate tenderness with which the King loved her.' Three
weeks after Miss Burney entered on her post, occurred the birthday of
this favourite child. On such festivals, when the weather was fine, the
Royal Family never failed to walk on the Terrace, which was crowded with
persons of distinction, who, by this mode of showing respect, escaped
the necessity of attending the next Drawing-room. On the present
occasion, Mrs. Delany was carried in her sedan—the gift of the King—to
the foot of the stairs, and appeared on the promenade with the new
Keeper of the Robes by her side. "It was really a mighty pretty
procession," writes Fanny. "The little Princess, just turned of three
years old, in a robe-coat covered with fine muslin, a dressed close cap,
white gloves, and a fan, walked on alone and first, highly delighted in
the parade, and turning from side to side to see everybody as she
passed: for all the terracers stand up against the walls, to make a
clear passage for the Royal Family, the moment they come in sight. Then
followed the King and Queen, no less delighted themselves with the joy
of their little darling. The Princess Royal, leaning on Lady Elizabeth
Waldegrave, followed at a little distance; next the Princess Augusta,
holding by the Duchess of Ancaster; and next the Princess Elizabeth,
holding by Lady Charlotte Bertie. Office here takes place of rank, which
occasioned Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave, as lady of her bedchamber, to walk
with the Princess Royal. Then followed the Princess Mary with Miss
Goldsworthy,[73] and the Princess Sophia with Mademoiselle Montmoulin
and Miss Planta;[74] then General Budé and the Duke of Montague;[75]
and, lastly, Major Price, who, as equerry, always brings up the rear,
walks at a distance from the group, and keeps off all crowd from the
Royal Family."
'One sees it,' adds Thackeray: 'the band playing its old music; the sun
shining on the happy loyal crowd, and lighting the ancient battlements,
the rich elms, and purple landscape, and bright green sward: the royal
standard drooping from the great tower yonder; as old George passes,
followed by his race, preceded by the charming infant, who caresses the
crowd with her innocent smiles.'
The Diary proceeds: 'On sight of Mrs. Delany, the King instantly stopped
to speak to her. The Queen, of course, and the little Princess, and all
the rest, stood still, in their ranks. They talked a good while with the
sweet old lady; during which time the King once or twice addressed
himself to me. I caught the Queen's eye, and saw in it a little
surprise, but by no means any displeasure, to see me of the party.
"The little Princess went up to Mrs. Delany, of whom she is very fond,
and behaved like a little angel to her: she then, with a look of inquiry
and recollection, slowly, of her own accord, came behind Mrs. Delany to
look at me. 'I am afraid,' said I, in a whisper, and stooping down,
'your Royal Highness does not remember me?'
"What think you was her answer? An arch little smile, and a nearer
approach, with her lips pouted out to kiss me. I could not resist so
innocent an invitation; but the moment I had accepted it, I was half
afraid it might seem, in so public a place, an improper liberty:
however, there was no help for it. She then took my fan, and having
looked at it on both sides, gravely returned it me, saying, 'O! a brown
fan!'"
-----
Footnote 61:
'It is pronounced like Rembrandt, but, as I told her, it does not look
older than she is, but older than she does.'—Walpole to Mason,
February 14, 1782.
Footnote 62:
The editor of Mrs. Delany's 'Correspondence,' having a grudge against
Madame d'Arblay, labours to prove that the Duchess of Portland cannot
have been present at this interview. The supposed proof consists in
showing from some old letters that the Duchess did not read 'Evelina'
for nearly twelve months after the date spoken of. But this is nothing
to the purpose. 'Evelina' does not appear to have been mentioned when
its author was introduced to Miss Delany. The conversation recorded to
have passed related wholly to 'Cecilia.'
Footnote 63:
Memoirs, vol. ii., p. 313.
Footnote 64:
The courtier-bishop Hurd described Mrs. Delany as a lady 'of great
politeness and ingenuity, and of an unaffected piety.'
Footnote 65:
Georgina Mary Ann Port (called 'Mary' by her great-aunt) was born on
September 16, 1771. Her father having outrun his means, she was taken
by Mrs. Delany, who brought her up to the age of sixteen. Not long
after the death of her protectress, she married Mr. Benjamin
Waddington, of Llanover. She died on January 19, 1850.
Footnote 66:
Miss Burney's account is confirmed in every important particular by
Walpole, who states that he had his information from Mrs. Delany's own
mouth: Walpole to Lady Ossory, September 17, 1785. Lady Llanover, who
edited the 'Delany Correspondence,' is wroth that the thankful
recipient of all this minute bounty should be accused of having been
helped in her housekeeping by the Duchess of Portland. In the 'Memoirs
of Dr. Burney' (vol. iii., p. 50), it is stated that the Duchess, who
visited at Mrs. Delany's nearly every evening, contrived to assist the
_ménage_, without offending her hostess by the offer of money. If
Madame d'Arblay erred in this statement—and Lady Llanover by no means
satisfies us that she did err—surely the mistake was a most venial
one. But Lady Llanover's outraged dignity fumes through hundreds of
pages in feeble sneers at Fanny's low origin, and still more feeble
attempts to convict her of inaccuracy. _Noblesse oblige._
Footnote 67:
The Probationary Odes for the Laureateship appeared in 1785, after
the appointment of Thomas Warton to that office, on the vacancy
occasioned by the death of William Whitehead.
Footnote 68:
Charlotte, b. 1766, d. 1828, m. King of Wurtemberg; Augusta, b. 1768,
d. 1840 (unm.); Elizabeth, b. 1770, d. 1840, m. Landgrave of Hesse
Homburg; Mary, b. 1776, d. 1840, m. her cousin, the Duke of
Gloucester; Sophia, b. 1777, d. 1848 (unm.); Amelia, b. 1783, d. 1810
(unm.).
Footnote 69:
Macaulay.
Footnote 70:
It was sometimes called the 'Queen's Lodge,' because it stood on the
site of the older Queen Anne's Lodge.
Footnote 71:
Loftie's 'Windsor Castle.'
Footnote 72:
Commonly known as the Rev. Charles Giffardier. He had a prebendal
stall at Salisbury, and was vicar of Newington, and rector of
Berkhampstead.—Croker in the _Quarterly Review_.
Footnote 73:
Sub-governess of the Princesses.
Footnote 74:
English teacher to the two eldest Princesses.
Footnote 75:
Master of the Horse.
-----
CHAPTER VI.
Royal Visit to Nuneham—A Present from the Queen—Official Exhortations—
Embarrassments at Nuneham—A Laborious Sunday—Hairdressing—The Court
visits Oxford—Journey thither—Reception by the University—Address and
Reply—Kissing Hands—Christchurch—Fatigues of the Suite—Refreshment
under Difficulties—A Surprise—The Routine of Court Life—The Equerries—
Draughts in the Palace—Early Prayers—Barley-water—The London Season—
Mrs. Siddons—Mrs. Schwellenberg's Apartments—Her Tame Frogs—Her
Behaviour to Miss Burney—Cruel Treatment—A Change for the Better—
Newspaper Reports—Conversation with the Queen—Miss Burney as Reader—
Her Attainments, Tastes, and Powers.
A few days after the scene described at the end of our last chapter, the
Court set out on a visit to Lord and Lady Harcourt at Nuneham. The
arrangement was that the royal party should pass the first day with
their host and hostess; spend the second and third in excursions to
Oxford and Blenheim respectively, sleeping each night at Nuneham; and
return the fourth day to Windsor. Miss Burney was informed that she was
to be one of her Majesty's suite. In making this communication to her,
Mrs. Schwellenberg took occasion to say: 'I tell you once, I shall do
for you what I can; you are to have a gown!' Seeing Fanny draw back in
surprise at this abrupt speech, the important old lady added: 'The Queen
will give you a gown; the Queen says you are not rich.' Offended at the
grossness with which the intended gracious present was offered, our
inexperienced Court servant declared a wish to decline it. Her superior
instantly flew into a passion. 'Miss Bernar,' cried she, quite angrily,
'I tell you once, when the Queen will give you a gown,[76] you must be
humble, thankful, when you are Duchess of Ancaster!' Before the journey
to Nuneham took place, Fanny, rather unwisely, expressed her regret that
she had some time previously neglected an opportunity of being
introduced to the lady whose house she was about to visit; she had met
Lord Harcourt, she said, and thought it might have smoothed her way to
know something of his Countess also. She was promptly told that she was
utterly insignificant—that, going with the Queen, she was sure of civil
treatment; but that whether or not she had a servant, or any change of
dress, was of no consequence. 'There is no need,' said the senior
Robe-Keeper, 'that you should be seen. I shall do everything that I can
to assist you to appear for nobody.'
In fact, the whole expedition might have seemed to be planned for the
purpose of convincing her that any importance she had once enjoyed was
now absolutely gone. Their Majesties went to Nuneham to breakfast. Miss
Burney followed in the afternoon, with Miss Planta, English teacher of
the Princesses, Mrs. Thielky, the Queen's wardrobe-woman, and one or two
more of the royal attendants. On their arrival, they found the house to
be 'one of those straggling, half-new, half-old, half-comfortable, and
half-forlorn mansions, that are begun in one generation and finished in
another.' We have a graphic and amusing description of accidents
encountered and discomforts endured, before the hapless and helpless
diarist was settled for the night: the being handed from her carriage by
a common postilion; the deserted hall, where not even a porter was to be
seen; the entire absence of a welcome, the whole family being in the
Park, with the King and Queen and Princesses, and the mistress of the
house having deputed no one to act for her; the want of assistance in
searching for her apartment; the wanderings through unknown mazy
passages; the 'superfine men in yellow-laced liveries' occasionally met
sauntering along, who disdained to waste a word in answer to inquiries;
the sitting down at length in despair in a room destined for one of the
Princesses; the alarm at being surprised there by its owner and her
sisters; the subsequent promises, only made to be broken, of guidance to
the wished-for haven; and finally, when that haven had at last been
reached, the humiliation of being summoned to supper by a
gentleman-footman haughtily calling out from the foot of the stairs,
'_The equerries want the ladies!_' It is impossible to read the account
of these 'difficulties and disgraces' without seeing that the shy,
sensitive, flattered novel-writer had indeed mistaken her vocation when
she accepted service in a royal household.
The next day was Sunday, and was appointed to be observed, after due
attendance at Church, by a visit to the University of Oxford. Late on
Saturday night, Miss Burney received the Queen's commands to belong to
the suite on the morrow, and rejoiced exceedingly that she had brought
with her a new Chambéry gauze, instead of only the dress she wore,
according to her Cerbera's advice. We abridge Fanny's narrative of her
laborious Sabbath:
"AUGUST 13TH.—At six o'clock my hairdresser, to my great satisfaction,
arrived. Full two hours was he at work, yet was I not finished, when
Swarthy, the Queen's hairdresser, came rapping at my door, to tell me
her Majesty's hair was done, and she was waiting for me. I hurried as
fast as I could, and ran down without any cap. She smiled at sight of
my hasty attire, and said I should not be distressed about a
hairdresser the next day, but employ Swarthy's assistant, as soon as
he had done with the Princesses: 'You should have had him,' she added,
'to-day, if I had known you wanted him.'
"When her Majesty was dressed, all but the hat, she sent for the three
Princesses; and the King came also. I felt very foolish with my
uncovered head; but it was somewhat the less awkward, from its being
very much a custom, in the Royal Family, to go without caps; though
none that appear before them use such a freedom.
"As soon as the hat was on—'Now, Miss Burney,' said the Queen, 'I
won't keep you; you had better go and dress too.'"
Breakfast and morning service followed, and then came the Oxford
expedition:
"How many carriages there were, and how they were arranged, I observed
not sufficiently to recollect; but the party consisted of their
Majesties, the Princesses Royal, Augusta, and Elizabeth, the Duchess
of Ancaster, Lord and Lady Harcourt, Lady Charlotte Bertie, and the
two Miss Vernons. These last ladies are daughters of the late Lord
Vernon, and sisters of Lady Harcourt. General Harcourt, Colonel
Fairly, and Major Price, and Mr. Hagget, with Miss Planta and myself,
completed the group. Miss Planta and I, of course, as the only
undignified persons, brought up the rear.... The city of Oxford
afforded us a very noble view on the road, and its spires, towers, and
domes soon made me forget all the little objects of minor spleen that
had been crossing me as I journeyed towards them; and, indeed, by the
time I arrived in the midst of them, their grandeur, nobility,
antiquity, and elevation impressed my mind so forcibly, that I felt,
for the first time since my new situation had taken place, a rushing
in of ideas that had no connection with it whatever. The roads were
lined with decently-dressed people, and the high street was so crowded
we were obliged to drive gently and carefully, to avoid trampling the
people to death. Yet their behaviour was perfectly respectful and
proper. Nothing could possibly be better conducted than the whole of
this expedition.'
The royal party were received by the Vice-Chancellor, and all the heads
of colleges and professors then in residence, who conducted them in
state to the Theatre, which was crowded with spectators. The King took
his seat, with his head covered, on the Chancellor's chair, the Queen
and Princesses sitting below him to the left. An address, which was read
by the Vice-Chancellor, contained, among other expressions of loyalty,
the congratulations of the University to the King on his recent escape
from the knife of Margaret Nicholson; at the same time touching on the
distress which the attempt had occasioned the Queen, and paying a
tribute to her amiable and virtuous character.
"The Queen could scarcely bear it, though she had already, I doubt
not, heard it at Nuneham, as these addresses must be first read in
private, to have the answers prepared. Nevertheless, this public
tribute of loyalty to the King, and of respect to herself, went
gratefully to her heart, and filled her eyes with tears—which she
would not, however, encourage, but, smiling through them, dispersed
them with her fan, with which she was repeatedly obliged to stop their
course down her cheeks. The Princesses, less guarded, the moment their
father's danger was mentioned, wept with but little control....
"When the address was ended, the King took a paper from Lord Harcourt,
and read his answer.... When he had done, he took off his hat, and
bowed to the Chancellor and Professors, and delivered the answer to
Lord Harcourt, who, walking backwards, descended the stairs, and
presented it to the Vice-Chancellor....
"After this, the Vice-Chancellor and Professors begged for the honour
of kissing the King's hand. Lord Harcourt was again the backward
messenger; and here followed a great mark of goodness in the King: he
saw that nothing less than a thoroughbred old courtier, such as Lord
Harcourt, could walk backwards down these steps, before himself, and
in sight of so full a hall of spectators; and he therefore dispensed
with being approached to his seat, and walked down himself into the
area, where the Vice-Chancellor kissed his hand, and was imitated by
every Professor and Doctor in the room.
"Notwithstanding this considerate good-nature in his Majesty, the
sight, at times, was very ridiculous. Some of the worthy collegiates,
unused to such ceremonies, and unaccustomed to such a presence, the
moment they had kissed the King's hand, turned their backs to him, and
walked away as in any common room; others, attempting to do better,
did still worse, by tottering and stumbling, and falling foul of those
behind them; some, ashamed to kneel, took the King's hand straight up
to their mouths; others, equally off their guard, plumped down on both
knees, and could hardly get up again; and many, in their confusion,
fairly arose by pulling his Majesty's hand to raise them....
"It was vacation time; there were therefore none of the students
present....
"At Christ Church, where we arrived at about three o'clock, in a large
hall there was a cold collation prepared for their Majesties and the
Princesses. It was at the upper end of the hall. I could not see of
what it consisted, though it would have been very agreeable, after so
much standing and sauntering, to have given my opinion of it in an
experimental way. Their Majesties and the Princesses sat down to this
table; as well satisfied, I believe, as any of their subjects so to
do. The Duchess of Ancaster and Lady Harcourt stood behind the chairs
of the Queen and the Princess Royal. There were no other ladies of
sufficient rank to officiate for Princesses Augusta and Elizabeth.
Lord Harcourt stood behind the King's chair; and the Vice-Chancellor,
and the Head of Christ Church, with salvers in their hands, stood near
the table, and ready to hand to the three noble waiters whatever was
wanted: while the other Reverend Doctors and Learned Professors stood
aloof, equally ready to present to the Chancellor and the Master
whatever they were to forward.
"We, meanwhile, untitled attendants, stood at the other end of the
room, forming a semicircle, and all strictly facing the Royal
collationers.... A whisper was soon buzzed through the semicircle of
the deplorable state of our appetite; and presently it reached the
ears of some of the worthy Doctors. Immediately a new whisper was
circulated, which made its progress with great vivacity, to offer us
whatever we would wish, and to beg us to name what we chose. Tea,
coffee, and chocolate, were whispered back. The method of producing,
and the means of swallowing them, were much more difficult to settle
than the choice of what was acceptable. Major Price and Colonel
Fairly, however, seeing a very large table close to the wainscot
behind us, desired our refreshments might be privately conveyed there,
behind the semicircle, and that, while all the group backed very near
it, one at a time might feed, screened by all the rest from
observation. I suppose I need not inform you, my dear Susan, that to
eat in presence of any of the Royal Family, is as much _hors d'usage_
as to be seated. This plan had speedy success, and the very good
Doctors soon, by sly degrees and with watchful caution, covered the
whole table with tea, coffee, chocolate, cakes, and bread and
butter....
"The Duchess of Ancaster and Lady Harcourt, as soon as the first
serving attendance was over, were dismissed from the royal chairs, and
most happy to join our group, and partake of our repast. The Duchess,
extremely fatigued with standing, drew a small body of troops before
her, that she might take a few minutes' rest on a form by one of the
doors; and Lady Charlotte Bertie did the same, to relieve an ankle
which she had unfortunately sprained. 'Poor Miss Burney!' cried the
good-natured Duchess, 'I wish she could sit down, for she is unused to
this work. She does not know yet what it is to stand for five hours
following, as we do....'
"In one of the colleges I stayed so long in an old chapel, lingering
over antique monuments, that all the party were vanished before I
missed them, except Doctors and Professors; for we had a train of
those everywhere; and I was then a little surprised by the approach of
one of them, saying, 'You seem inclined to abide with us, Miss
Burney?'—and then another, in an accent of facetious gallantry, cried,
'No, no; don't let us shut up Miss Burney among old tombs!—No, no!'"
At Magdalene College, Miss Burney and two or three other members of the
suite, having slipped away to a small parlour, sat down to rest, and
enjoy some apricots which Mr. Fairly had brought in his pockets.
Suddenly the door opened; the Queen entered; the truants started up, and
tried to look as if sitting was a posture unknown to them; while
desperate exertions were made to hide the forbidden fruit. 'I
discovered,' says Fanny, 'that our appetites were to be supposed
annihilated, at the same time that our strength was to be invincible.'
However, her fatigues ended at last, and she was permitted to spend the
Monday in peace among the pictures and gardens of Nuneham, not being
commanded to join in the excursion to Blenheim.
After this expedition, the year wore on slowly and tediously. There were
more royal birthdays to be kept, with the usual terracings and concerts.
In alternate weeks, the Court removed from Windsor to Kew for two or
three days, and again returned to Windsor. There were journeys from Kew
to St. James's, and back, on the days appointed for Drawing-rooms. But
the ordinary routine of Windsor and Kew was monotony itself. 'The
household always rose, rode, dined at stated intervals. Day after day
was the same. At the same hour at night the King kissed his daughters'
jolly cheeks; the Princesses kissed their mother's hand; and Madame
Thielky brought the royal nightcap. At the same hour the equerries and
women-in-waiting had their little dinner, and cackled over their tea.
The King had his backgammon or his evening concert; the equerries yawned
themselves to death in the anteroom.'[77] And it must be remembered that
poor Miss Burney had only a partial share even in this unvaried round of
existence. Her views of the Court proper were confined to glimpses
through half-opened doors, and down the vistas of long corridors. She
was not even permitted to stand at the entrance of the room where
'nothing but Handel was played;' and when Mrs. Siddons once came to the
Lodge to read a play, the Keepers of the Robes were only allowed access
to 'a convenient adjoining room.' She was licensed to receive hardly
anyone from the outer world, except her father and sisters, Mrs. Delany,
and the Lockes; beyond these, she had to use the utmost caution in
admitting visitors; while her associates within the palace were
restricted to the King's equerries, Mr. Turbulent, Mrs. Schwellenberg,
Miss Planta, and a few other persons in positions resembling her own.
She saw no other company but the strangers who from time to time were
sent to dine at Mrs. Schwellenberg's table.
His Majesty's equerries were certainly not selected for their brilliant
attainments, or their powers of conversation, or even for their polished
manners. One of these gentlemen, a Colonel Goldsworthy, whom Miss Burney
had not before seen, arrived for his turn of duty at the end of
September. 'He seems to me,' says the Diary, 'a man of but little
cultivation or literature, but delighting in a species of dry humour, in
which he shines most successfully, by giving himself up for its
favourite butt.' He soon began to warn Fanny of the discomforts of
winter service in the ill-built and ill-contrived Queen's Lodge. 'Wait
till November and December, and then you'll get a pretty taste of
them.... Let's see, how many blasts must you have every time you go to
the Queen? First, one upon opening your door; then another, as you get
down the three steps from it, which are exposed to the wind from the
garden-door downstairs; then a third, as you turn the corner to enter
the passage; then you come plump upon another from the hall door; then
comes another, fit to knock you down, as you turn to the upper passage;
then, just as you turn towards the Queen's room comes another; and last,
a whiff from the King's stairs, enough to blow you half a mile off. One
thing,' he added, 'pray let me caution you about—don't go to early
prayers in November; if you do, that will completely kill you!... When
the Princesses, used to it as they are, get regularly knocked up before
this business is over, off they drop one by one:—first the Queen deserts
us; then Princess Elizabeth is done for; then Princess Royal begins
coughing; then Princess Augusta gets the snuffles; and all the poor
attendants, my poor sister[78] at their head, drop off, one after
another, like so many snuffs of candles: till at last, dwindle, dwindle,
dwindle—not a soul goes to the Chapel but the King, the parson, and
myself; and there we three freeze it out together!'
That the King was considerate to his attendants, the following story by
the same elegant wit will testify. It was told after a hard day's
hunting: "'After all our labours,' said he, 'home we come, with not a
dry thread about us, sore to the very bone, and forced to smile all the
time, and then:
"'Here, Goldsworthy!' cries his Majesty; so up I comes to him, bowing
profoundly, and my hair dripping down to my shoes. 'Goldsworthy, I say,'
he cries, 'will you have a little barley-water?'
"'And, pray, did you drink it?'
"'I drink it?—drink barley-water? No, no; not come to that neither.' But
there it was, sure enough!—in a jug fit for a sick-room; just such a
thing as you put upon a hob in a chimney, for some poor miserable soul
that keeps his bed! And: 'Here, Goldsworthy,' says his Majesty, 'here's
the barley-water!'
"'And did the King drink it himself?'
"'Yes, God bless his Majesty! but I was too humble a subject to do the
same as the King!'"
In January, 1787, the Court removed to London for the winter. During
their residence in the capital, the Royal Family occupied Buckingham
House, then called the Queen's House. But the season in town was
interrupted by short weekly visits to Windsor. The only Sundays of the
year which George III. spent in London were the six Sundays of Lent.
Miss Burney went to the play once or twice, and also attended 'the
Tottenham Street oratorios.' She had more than one illness in the early
part of this year; but her custodians courteously entreated their
prisoner, and gave her liberty to go to her friends to refresh herself.
Under this permission, she had opportunities of meeting Mrs.
Cholmondeley, Sir Joshua, Mrs. Montagu, Mrs. Vesey, Horace Walpole,[79]
and sundry other old acquaintances. But at the beginning of June the
relaxations of this pleasant time, as well as the fatiguing journeys
backwards and forwards to Windsor, came to an end, and the household
were again settled in the Upper Lodge. The rest of the year passed in
much the same way as the summer and autumn of 1786 had done, but with
fewer noticeable incidents.
In August occurred the commanded visit of Mrs. Siddons, to which we have
before referred:
"In the afternoon ... her Majesty came into the room, and, after a
little German discourse with Mrs. Schwellenberg, told me Mrs. Siddons
had been ordered to the Lodge, to read a play, and desired I would
receive her in my room.
"I felt a little queer in the office; I had only seen her twice or
thrice, in large assemblies, at Miss Monckton's, and at Sir Joshua
Reynolds's, and never had been introduced to her, nor spoken with her.
However, in this dead and tame life I now lead, such an interview was
by no means undesirable.
"I had just got to the bottom of the stairs, when she entered the
passage gallery. I took her into the tea-room, and endeavoured to make
amends for former distance and taciturnity, by an open and cheerful
reception. I had heard from sundry people (in old days) that she
wished to make the acquaintance; but ... now that we came so near, I
was much disappointed in my expectations.... I found her the Heroine
of a Tragedy—sublime, elevated, and solemn. In face and person, truly
noble and commanding; in manners, quiet and stiff; in voice, deep and
dragging; and in conversation, formal, sententious, calm, and dry. I
expected her to have been all that is interesting; the delicacy and
sweetness with which she seizes every opportunity to strike and to
captivate upon the stage had persuaded me that her mind was formed
with that peculiar susceptibility which, in different modes, must give
equal powers to attract and to delight in common life. But I was very
much mistaken. As a stranger, I must have admired her noble appearance
and beautiful countenance, and have regretted that nothing in her
conversation kept pace with their promise; and, as a celebrated
actress, I had still only to do the same. Whether fame and success
have spoiled her, or whether she only possesses the skill of
representing and embellishing materials with which she is furnished by
others, I know not; but still I remain disappointed.
"She was scarcely seated, and a little general discourse begun, before
she told me—all at once—that 'there was no part she had ever so much
wished to act as that of Cecilia.' I made some little acknowledgment,
and hurried to ask when she had seen Sir Joshua Reynolds, Miss Palmer,
and others with whom I knew her acquainted. The play she was to read
was 'The Provoked Husband.' She appeared neither alarmed nor elated by
her summons, but calmly to look upon it as a thing of course, from her
celebrity."
The company that assembled in Mrs. Schwellenberg's apartments occupied
their leisure hours with small-talk, mild flirtations, and trifling
amusements, varied by occasional misunderstandings. The first Keeper of
the Robes domineered over them all, and her rule was a savage tyranny,
tempered by ill-health. Her infirmities sometimes detained her in London
for weeks together. During her absence, her junior presided at the
dinner-table, and made tea for the equerries. Great was the joy whenever
the old lady went up to town to consult her physician. Then Mr.
Turbulent,[80] more gay and flighty than beseemed a married
clergyman,[81] would practise on the patent prudery of Fanny's character
by broaching strange theories of morality, and breaking out in wild
rhapsodies of half-amatory admiration. Then the colonels-in-waiting,
relieved from the watchful eyes of Cerbera, exerted themselves for the
entertainment of the fair tea-maker. They were not always successful.
Miss Burney cared but little for Colonel Goldsworthy's rough humour, and
still less for the vocal performances of a certain Colonel Manners, who,
in love with his own voice, and with what he called the songs that he
heard at church, insisted on regaling his friends with snatches from
Tate and Brady, married to the immortal notes of the National Anthem.
Fanny once or twice caused some unpleasantness by endeavouring to escape
from the duty of receiving the equerries in the evening. As soon as the
Schwellenberg returned, she was again thrown into the background.
Destitute of every attraction, yet constantly demanding notice, the
principal could not bear to see the least attention bestowed on anyone
else. 'Apparently,' says the Diary, 'she never wishes to hear my voice
but when we are _tête-à-tête_, and then never is in good-humour when it
is at rest.' When in company, she would sometimes talk about a pair of
tame frogs which she kept, and fall into an ecstasy while describing
'their ladder, their table, and their amiable ways of snapping live
flies.' 'And I can make them croak when I will,' she would say, 'when I
only go so to my snuff-box—knock, knock, knock—they croak all what I
please.' Rather to our surprise, we hear of this lady being once engaged
in reading: the author was Josephus, 'which is the only book in favour
at present, and serves for all occasions, and is quoted to solve all
difficulties.' But the sole effectual mode of amusing her, after the
gentlemen had retired, was to join her in a game at cards. Fanny
disliked cards, and knew little of trumps or honours; but to avert
threatened attacks of spasms, she was at length fain to waive her
objections, and learn piquet. When in the least crossed, Mrs.
Schwellenberg put no restraint on her temper, language, or demeanour. If
her servants kept her waiting for her coach, she would talk of having
them transported; if Miss Burney spoke of taking tea with Mrs. Delany,
she would leave her unhelped at the dinner-table.
Such was _la Présidente_. More than once, Miss Burney felt her ill-usage
so intolerable that she was only held back from resigning her
appointment by reluctance to mortify her father. The most violent
dispute between them occurred towards the end of November, 1787, when,
during a journey to town for a Drawing-Room, Mrs. Schwellenberg had
insisted upon keeping the window of the carriage on her companion's side
open, though a sharp wind was blowing, which before their arrival in
London set up an inflammation in poor Fanny's eyes. The scene on the
journey back is thus described:
"The next day, when we assembled to return to Windsor, Mr. de Luc was
in real consternation at sight of my eyes; and I saw an indignant
glance at my coadjutrix, that could scarce content itself without
being understood....
"Some business of Mrs. Schwellenberg's occasioned a delay of the
journey, and we all retreated back; and when I returned to my room,
Miller, the old head housemaid, came to me, with a little neat tin
saucepan in her hand, saying, 'Pray, ma'am, use this for your eyes:
'tis milk and butter, _such as I used to make for Madame Haggerdorn_
when she travelled in the winter with Mrs. Schwellenberg.'
"I really shuddered when she added, that all that poor woman's
misfortunes with her eyes, which, from inflammation after
inflammation, grew nearly blind, were attributed by herself to these
journeys, in which she was forced to have the glass down at her side
in all weathers, and frequently the glasses behind her also!
"Upon my word this account of my predecessor was the least
exhilarating intelligence I could receive! Goter told me, afterwards,
that all the servants in the house had remarked _I was going just the
same way_!
"Miss Planta presently ran into my room, to say she had hopes we
should travel without this amiable being; and she had left me but a
moment when Mrs. Stainforth succeeded her, exclaiming, 'Oh, for
Heaven's sake, don't leave her behind; for Heaven's sake, Miss Burney,
take her with you!'
"'Twas impossible not to laugh at these opposite interests; both, from
agony of fear, breaking through all restraint.
"Soon after, however, we all assembled again, and got into the coach.
Mr. de Luc, who was my _vis-à-vis_, instantly pulled up the glass.
"'Put down that glass!' was the immediate order.
"He affected not to hear her, and began conversing.
"She enraged quite tremendously, calling aloud to be obeyed without
delay. He looked compassionately at me, and shrugged his shoulders,
and said, 'But, ma'am——"
"'Do it, Mr. de Luc, when I tell you! I will have it! When you been
too cold, you might bear it!'
"'It is not for me, ma'am, but poor Miss Burney.'
"'O, poor Miss Burney might bear it the same! put it down, Mr. de Luc!
without, I will get out! put it down, when I tell you! It is my coach!
I will have it selfs! I might go alone in it, or with one, or with
what you call nobody, when I please!'
"Frightened for good Mr. de Luc, and the more for being much obliged
to him, I now interfered, and begged him to let down the glass. Very
reluctantly he complied, and I leant back in the coach, and held up my
muff to my eyes.
"What a journey ensued! To see that face when lighted up with fury is
a sight for horror! I was glad to exclude it by my muff.
"Miss Planta alone attempted to speak. I did not think it incumbent on
me to 'make the agreeable,' thus used; I was therefore wholly dumb:
for not a word, not an apology, not one expression of being sorry for
what I suffered, was uttered. The most horrible ill-humour, violence,
and rudeness, were all that were shown. Mr. de Luc was too much
provoked to take his usual method of passing all off by constant talk:
and as I had never seen him venture to appear provoked before, I felt
a great obligation to his kindness.
"When we were about half-way, we stopped to water the horses. He then
again pulled up the glass, as if from absence. A voice of fury
exclaimed, 'Let it down! without, I won't go!'
"'I am sure,' cried he, 'all Mrs. de Luc's plants will be killed by
this frost!'
"For the frost was very severe indeed.
"Then he proposed my changing places with Miss Planta, who sat
opposite Mrs. Schwellenberg, and consequently on the sheltered side.
"'Yes!' cried Mrs. Schwellenberg, 'Miss Burney might sit there, and so
she ought!'
"I told her briefly I was always sick in riding backwards.
"'Oh, ver well! when you don't like it, don't do it. You might bear it
when you like it! What did the poor Haggerdorn bear it! when the blood
was all running down from her eyes!'
"This was too much! 'I must take, then,' I cried, 'the more warning!'"
Even this quarrel blew over. Mrs. Schwellenberg[82] continued to look
black, and hurl thunderbolts, as long as the peccant eyes remained
inflamed, but as these gradually grew well, her brows cleared and her
incivility wore off, till the sufferer became far more in favour than
she had ever presumed to think herself till that time. She was$1'$2'$3at
every other word; no one else was listened to if she would speak, and no
one else was accepted for a partner at piquet if she would play. Fanny
found no cause to which she could attribute this change, and believed
the whole mere matter of caprice.
In the autumn of 1787, the newspapers began to make frequent mention of
Miss Burney's name. Paragraphs appeared regretting her long silence, and
the employment to which it was supposed to be attributable.[83] Fanny
had many regrets connected with her situation: she lamented her
dependence on her odious colleague; she lamented the inferiority of most
of her associates; she lamented her separation from her old friends; but
we have no reason to think that she repined at the want of liberty to
print and publish. At least we cannot discover any passage in her Diary
indicating such a feeling. Presently the paragraphs proceeded to mingle
rumours with regrets. The 'World' was informed that Miss Burney 'had
resigned her place about the Queen, and had been promoted to attend the
Princesses, an office far more suited to her character and abilities.'
Then followed a contradiction. 'The rumour of resignation was premature,
and only arose from thoughts of the benefit the education of the
Princesses might reap from Miss Burney's virtues and accomplishments.'
Such speculations made it needful for their subject to explain herself
to the Queen. Fanny hastened to repudiate all participation in the idea
that it could be promotion to her to be transferred from the service of
her Majesty to that of the Princesses; she disclaimed, with equal
warmth, having the slightest wish for such a transference. There can be
no doubt that she was perfectly sincere. The Queen, she felt, had some
regard for her, and she had a decided attachment to the Queen. 'Oh,' she
sighed, 'were there no Mrs. Schwellenberg!'
One cannot help wondering if the question whether some more worthy
position at Court might not be found for Miss Burney occurred to the
Queen, or to herself, at this interview. If such a thought did present
itself, it does not seem to have been mentioned by either. Fanny had
early conceived the notion that the Queen intended to employ her as an
English reader. She was not altogether wrong. She had been occasionally
called on to read, but the result did not prove very satisfactory. At
the first trial her voice was quite unmanageable; when she had
concluded, the Queen talked of the _Spectator_ she had read, but
forebore saying anything of any sort about the reader. Of a subsequent
attempt we have this record: 'Again I read a little to the Queen—two
_Tatlers_; both happened to be very stupid; neither of them Addison's,
and therefore reader and reading were much on a par: for I cannot arrive
at ease in this exhibition to her Majesty; and where there is fear or
constraint, how deficient, if not faulty, is every performance!' For the
office of preceptress to the Princesses she was even less fitted than
for that of reader to their mother. Probably Mrs. Goldsworthy and Miss
Planta were much better qualified to instruct their young charges than
Miss Burney would have been. This may be confessed without the slightest
reflection on her extraordinary talents. She could afford to have it
known that her education had been neglected. It was nothing that she had
withdrawn rather ungraciously from Johnson's Latin lessons. It was
little that she did not understand a word of the German which the Royal
Family commonly spoke among themselves. Hardly any Englishwomen in those
days read Latin, or were acquainted with the language of Goethe and
Wieland. But Miss Burney had not even a strong taste for reading. At the
height of her fame, her knowledge of ordinary English authors was
surprisingly limited. Queen Charlotte, who read a good deal in French
and English, as well as in German, was disappointed by the scanty
furniture of her attendant's book-shelves. And whenever her Majesty or
anyone else at Court mentioned any standard or current work in her
presence, it almost invariably happened that she had not read it. One
evening, Cowper's 'Task' was referred to, and she was asked if she knew
the poem; 'Only by character,' was her answer. She had not even that
amount of acquaintance with Churchill's Satires, the very existence of
which seems to have been unknown to her. Akenside's works she knew of
only by some quotations which she had heard from Mr. Locke. It may,
perhaps, be urged that Cowper was then quite a new writer, and that the
fame of Mark Akenside and Charles Churchill, though bright when she was
a child, had become dim before she grew up. Well, then, take Goldsmith.
No poems were more popular than Oliver's when Fanny began to see the
world in Martin's Street; yet we have her confession that she never read
the 'Traveller,' or 'The Deserted Village,' till a friend made her a
present of them in 1790.[84] This being so, we cannot wonder that she
had never heard of Falconer's 'Shipwreck' when Colonel Digby produced a
copy of that work. She appears to have been barely aware of Cumberland's
'Observer,' a production in which she herself and most of her friends
were referred to, until the Queen read some passages to her, and
afterwards lent her the volumes. She had not seen Hawkins's 'Life of
Johnson' when the King first mentioned it to her, and 'talked it over
with great candour and openness.' Nor did she take much interest in
literary questions. The Scotch ballad of 'The Gaberlunzie Man,' then
lately printed in Germany, she threw aside almost contemptuously, though
it had been lent her by the Queen. About Shakspeare her views were those
of a most loyal subject. She reads Hamlet to Mrs. Delany, and this is
her comment: 'How noble a play it is, considered in parts! how wild and
how improbable, taken as a whole! But there are speeches, from time to
time, of such exquisite beauty of language, sentiment, and pathos, that
I could wade through the most thorny of roads to arrive at them.' The
Queen, as Thackeray has observed, could give shrewd opinions about
books, and we suspect she presently learned to value her second
Robe-Keeper for her brightness of intelligence, her powers of
description, and her lively humour, rather than for the solidity or the
variety of her attainments.
-----
Footnote 76:
Macaulay says that this promise of a gown was never performed; but he
is mistaken. Miss Burney did get the gown after some delay. It was 'a
lilac tabby,' whatever that may be, or may have been. (Diary, ii.
189.)
Footnote 77:
Thackeray.
Footnote 78:
Miss Goldsworthy, sub-governess of the Princesses.
Footnote 79:
'The last time I saw her (Mrs. Vesey) before I left London,' writes
Walpole, 'Miss Burney passed the evening there, looking quite
recovered and well; and so cheerful and agreeable that the Court seems
only to have improved the ease of her manner, instead of stamping more
reserve on it, as I feared. But what slight graces it can give will
not compensate to us and the world for the loss of her company and her
writings.'—Walpole to Hannah More, June 15, 1787.
Footnote 80:
What induced Macaulay to describe this gentleman as 'half-witted,' we
are at a loss to conjecture. He possessed, as Miss Burney bears
witness, remarkable cleverness, extraordinary attainments and great
powers of conversation.
Footnote 81:
He had a wife to whom he was strongly attached.
Footnote 82:
Croker was told by the Right Hon. Joseph Planta, on the authority of
Miss Planta, that Mrs. Schwellenberg was so despotic that she was
better served, and more attended to than the Queen herself. Her
servant always waited at the step of her door that she might not have
to ring a bell; and a very constant expression of hers was, that if
such and such a thing was good enough for her Majesty, it was not good
enough for _her_.'—Jesse's 'George III.,' vol. ii., App., p. 539.
Footnote 83:
'I flatter myself _you_ will never be royally gagged and promoted to
fold muslins, as has been lately wittily said on Miss Burney, in the
List of five hundred living authors.'—Walpole to Hannah More, July 12,
1788.
Footnote 84:
'Diary,' vol. iii., p. 245.
-----
CHAPTER VII.
The Trial of Warren Hastings—Westminster Hall—Description of it on the
Opening Day of the Trial—Edmund Burke—The other Managers—Procession of
the Peers—Entrance of the Defendant—The Arraignment—Speech of Lord
Chancellor Thurlow—Reply of Warren Hastings—Opening of the Trial—Mr.
Windham—His Admiration of Dr. Johnson—His Reflections on the
Spectacle—Bearing of the Lord Chancellor—Windham on Hastings—William
Pitt—Major Scott—Conversation with Windham—Partisanship—Close of the
First Day's Proceedings—Conference on it with the Queen—Another Day at
the Trial—Burke's Great Speech—Resemblance between Hastings and
Windham—Fox's Eloquence—Death of Mrs. Delany.
On the 13th of February, 1788, began the trial of Warren Hastings. Miss
Burney was furnished by the Queen with two tickets for the opening
ceremony. She went accordingly, accompanied by her brother Charles, and
also by a Miss Gomme, of whom she was commanded to undertake the charge.
We abridge her description of this great spectacle. It should be
premised that the zeal with which she espoused the side of the defence
was due not solely to the favour shown to Mr. and Mrs. Hastings by the
Court, but in an equal degree, at least, to her own personal friendship
for the accused statesman and his wife, with whom she had become
acquainted before she joined the royal service:
"We got to Westminster Hall between nine and ten o'clock....
"The Grand Chamberlain's Box is in the centre of the upper end of the
Hall: there we sat, Miss Gomme and myself, immediately behind the
chair placed for Sir Peter Burrell. To the left, on the same level,
were the green benches for the House of Commons, which occupied a
third of the upper end of the Hall, and the whole of the left side: to
the right of us, on the same level, was the Grand Chamberlain's
Gallery....
"The bottom of the Hall contained the Royal Family's Box and the Lord
High Steward's....
"A gallery also was run along the left side of the Hall, above the
green benches, which is called the Duke of Newcastle's Box, the centre
of which was railed off into a separate apartment for the reception of
the Queen and four eldest Princesses, who were then _incog._, not
choosing to appear in state, and in their own Box.
"In the middle of the floor was placed a large table, and at the head
of it the seat for the Chancellor, and round it seats for the Judges,
the Masters in Chancery, the Clerks, and all who belonged to the Law;
the upper end, and the right side of the room, was allotted to the
Peers in their robes; the left side to the Bishops and Archbishops.
"Immediately below the Great Chamberlain's Box was the place allotted
for the Prisoner. On his right side was a box for his own Counsel, on
his left the Box for the Managers, or Committee, for the Prosecution;
and these three most important of all the divisions in the Hall were
all directly adjoining to where I was seated....
"The business did not begin till near twelve o'clock. The opening to
the whole then took place, by the entrance of the _Managers of the
Prosecution_; all the company were already long in their boxes or
galleries.
"I shuddered, and drew involuntarily back, when, as the doors were
flung open, I saw Mr. Burke, as Head of the Committee, make his solemn
entry. He held a scroll in his hand, and walked alone, his brow knit
with corroding care and deep labouring thought—a brow how different to
that which had proved so alluring to my warmest admiration when first
I met him! so highly as he had been my favourite, so captivating as I
had found his manners and conversation in our first acquaintance, and
so much as I owed to his zeal and kindness to me and my affairs in its
progress! How did I grieve to behold him now the cruel Prosecutor
(such to me he appeared) of an injured and innocent man!
"Mr. Fox followed next, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Windham, Messrs. Anstruther,
Grey, Adam, Michael Angelo Taylor, Pelham, Colonel North, Mr.
Frederick Montagu, Sir Gilbert Elliot, General Burgoyne, Dudley Long,
etc....
"When the Committee Box was filled, the House of Commons at large took
their seats on their green benches....
"Then began the procession, the Clerks entering first, then the
Lawyers according to their rank, and the Peers, Bishops, and Officers,
all in their coronation robes; concluding with the Princes of the
Blood,—Prince William, son to the Duke of Gloucester, coming first,
then the Dukes of Cumberland, Gloucester, and York, then the Prince of
Wales; and the whole ending by the Chancellor, with his train borne.
"They then all took their seats.
"A Serjeant-at-Arms arose, and commanded silence....
"Then some other officer, in a loud voice, called out, as well as I
can recollect, words to this purpose:—'Warren Hastings, Esquire, come
forth! Answer to the charges brought against you; save your bail, or
forfeit your recognizance!'
"Indeed I trembled at these words, and hardly could keep my place when
I found Mr. Hastings was being brought to the bar. He came forth from
some place immediately under the Great Chamberlain's Box, and was
preceded by Sir Francis Molyneux, Usher of the Black Rod; and at each
side of him walked his Bails, Messrs. Sullivan and Sumner.
"The moment he came in sight, which was not for full ten minutes after
his awful summons, he made a low bow to the Chancellor and Court
facing him. I saw not his face, as he was directly under me. He moved
on slowly, and, I think, supported between his two Bails, to the
opening of his own Box; there, lower still, he bowed again; and then,
advancing to the bar, he leant his hands upon it, and dropped on his
knees; but a voice in the same moment proclaiming he had leave to
rise, he stood up almost instantaneously, and a third time profoundly
bowed to the Court.
"What an awful moment this for such a man!—a man fallen from such a
height of power to a situation so humiliating—from the almost
unlimited command of so large a part of the Eastern World to be cast
at the feet of his enemies, of the great tribunal of his country, and
of the nation at large, assembled thus in a body to try and to judge
him! Could even his prosecutors at that moment look on—and not shudder
at least, if they did not blush?
"The crier, I think it was, made, in a loud and hollow voice, a public
proclamation, 'That Warren Hastings, Esquire, late Governor-General of
Bengal, was now on his trial for high crimes and misdemeanours, with
which he was charged by the Commons of Great Britain; and that all
persons whatsoever who had aught to allege against him were now to
stand forth.'
"A general silence followed, and the Chancellor, Lord Thurlow, now
made his speech....
"Again Mr. Hastings made the lowest reverence to the Court, and,
leaning over the bar, answered, with much agitation, through evident
efforts to suppress it, 'My Lords—impressed—deeply impressed—I come
before your Lordships, equally confident in my own integrity, and in
the justice of the Court before which I am to clear it.'...
"A general silence again ensued, and then one of the lawyers opened
the cause. He began by reading from an immense roll of parchment the
general charges against Mr. Hastings, but he read in so monotonous a
chant that nothing else could I hear or understand than now and then
the name of Warren Hastings.
"During this reading, to which I vainly lent all my attention, Mr.
Hastings, finding it, I presume, equally impossible to hear a word,
began to cast his eyes around the House, and having taken a survey of
all in front and at the sides, he turned about and looked up; pale
looked his face—pale, ill, and altered. I was much affected by the
sight of that dreadful harass which was written on his countenance.
Had I looked at him without restraint, it could not have been without
tears. I felt shocked, too, shocked and ashamed, to be seen by him in
that place. I had wished to be present from an earnest interest in the
business, joined to firm confidence in his powers of defence; but
_his_ eyes were not those I wished to meet in Westminster Hall....
"Another lawyer now arose, and read so exactly in the same manner,
that it was utterly impossible to discover even whether it was a
charge or an answer.
"Such reading as this, you may well suppose, set everybody pretty much
at their ease; and but for the interest I took in looking from time to
time at Mr. Hastings, and watching his countenance, I might as well
have been away. He seemed composed after the first half-hour, and
calm; but he looked with a species of indignant contempt towards his
accusers, that could not, I think, have been worn had his defence been
doubtful. Many there are who fear for him; for me, I own myself wholly
confident in his acquittal....
"At length I was called by a 'How d'ye do, Miss Burney?' from the
Committee Box! And then I saw young Mr. Burke, who had jumped up on
the nearest form to speak to me. Pleasant enough! I checked my
vexation as well as I was able, since the least shyness on my part to
those with whom formerly I had been social must instantly have been
attributed to Court influence; and therefore, since I could not avoid
the notice, I did what I could to talk with him as heretofore. He is,
besides, so amiable a young man, that I could not be sorry to see him
again, though I regretted it should be just in that place, and at this
time....
"The moment I was able to withdraw from young Mr. Burke, Charles, who
sat behind me, leant down and told me a gentleman had just desired to
be presented to me.
"'Who?' quoth I.
"'Mr. Windham,' he answered.
"'I really thought he was laughing, and answered accordingly; but he
assured me he was in earnest, and that Mr. Windham had begged him to
make the proposition. What could I do? There was no refusing: yet a
planned meeting with another of the Committee, and one deep in the
prosecution, and from whom one of the hardest charges has come—could
anything be less pleasant as I was then situated?
"The Great Chamberlain's Box is the only part of the hall that has any
communication with either the Committee Box or the House of Commons,
and it is also the very nearest to the prisoner. Mr. Windham I had
seen twice before—both times at Miss Monckton's; and anywhere else I
should have been much gratified by his desire of a third meeting, as
he is one of the most agreeable, spirited, well-bred, and brilliant
conversers I have ever spoken with. He is a neighbour, too, now, of
Charlotte's. He is member for Norwich, and a man of family and
fortune, with a very pleasing, though not handsome face, a very
elegant figure, and an air of fashion and vivacity....
"I was sorry to see him make one of a set that appeared so inveterate
against a man I believe so injuriously treated; and my concern was
founded upon the good thoughts I had conceived of him, not merely from
his social talents, which are yet very uncommon, but from a reason
dearer to my remembrance. He loved Dr. Johnson—and Dr. Johnson
returned his affection. Their political principles and connexions were
opposite, but Mr. Windham respected his venerable friend too highly to
discuss any points that could offend him; and showed for him so true a
regard, that, during all his late illnesses, for the latter part of
his life, his carriage and himself were alike at his service, to air,
visit, or go out, whenever he was disposed to accept them.
"Nor was this all; one tender proof he gave of warm and generous
regard, that I can never forget, and that rose instantly to my mind
when I heard his name, and gave him a welcome in my eyes when they met
his face. It is this: Dr. Johnson, in his last visit to Lichfield, was
taken ill, and waited to recover strength for travelling back to town
in his usual vehicle, a stage-coach. As soon as this reached the ears
of Mr. Windham, he set off for Lichfield in his own carriage, to offer
to bring him back to town in it, and at his own time....
"Charles soon told me he was at my elbow....
"After the first compliments he looked around him, and exclaimed,
'What an assembly is this! How striking a _spectacle_! I had not seen
half its splendour down there. You have it here to great advantage;
you lose some of the Lords, but you gain all the Ladies. You have a
very good place here.'
"'Yes; and I may safely say I make a very impartial use of it: for
since here I have sat, I have never discovered to which side I have
been listening!'
"He laughed, but told me they were then running through the charges.
"'And is it essential,' cried I, 'that they should so run them through
that nobody can understand them? Is that a form of law?'
"He agreed to the absurdity; and then, looking still at the
_spectacle_, which indeed is the most splendid I ever saw, arrested
his eyes upon the Chancellor. 'He looks very well from hence,' cried
he; 'and how well he acquits himself on these solemn occasions! With
what dignity, what loftiness, what high propriety, he comports
himself!'...
"Suddenly, his eye dropped down upon poor Mr. Hastings: the expression
of his face instantly lost the gaiety and ease with which it had
addressed me; he stopped short in his remarks; he fixed his eyes
steadfastly on this new, and but too interesting object, and after
viewing him some time in a sort of earnest silence, he suddenly
exclaimed, as if speaking to himself, and from an impulse
irresistible—'What a sight is that! to see that man, that small
portion of human clay, that poor feeble machine of earth, enclosed now
in that little space, brought to that Bar, a prisoner in a spot six
foot square—and to reflect on his late power! Nations at his command!
Princes prostrate at his feet!—What a change! how must he feel it!——'
"He stopped, and I said not a word. I was glad to see him thus
impressed; I hoped it might soften his enmity. I found, by his manner,
that he had never, from the Committee Box, looked at him....
"Recovering, now, from the strong emotion with which the sight of Mr.
Hastings had filled him, he looked again around the Court, and pointed
out several of the principal characters present, with arch and
striking remarks upon each of them, all uttered with high spirit, but
none with ill-nature.
"'Pitt,' cried he, 'is not here!—a noble stroke that for the annals of
his administration! A trial is brought on by the whole House of
Commons in a body, and he is absent at the very opening! However,'
added he, with a very meaning laugh, 'I'm glad of it, for 'tis to his
eternal disgrace!'
"Mercy! thought I, what a friend to kindness is party!
"'Do you see Scott?' cried he.
"'No, I never saw him; pray show him me.'
"'There he is, in green; just now by the Speaker, now moved by the
Committee; in two minutes more he will be somewhere else, skipping
backwards and forwards; what a grasshopper it is!'
"'I cannot look at him,' cried I, 'without recollecting a very
extraordinary letter from him, that I read last summer in the
newspaper, where he answers some attack that he says has been made
upon him, because the term is used of "a very insignificant fellow;"
and he printed two or three letters in the Public Advertiser, in
following days, to prove, with great care and pains, that he knew it
was all meant as an abuse of himself, from those words!'
"'And what,' cried he, laughing, 'do you say to that notion now you
see him?'
"'That no one,' cried I, examining him with my glass, 'can possibly
dispute his claim!'
"What pity that Mr. Hastings should have trusted his cause to so
frivolous an agent! I believe, and indeed it is the general belief,
both of foes and friends, that to his officious and injudicious zeal
the present prosecution is wholly owing."
A long conversation—or rather several conversations, for the talk was
interrupted more than once—ensued, in the course of which Miss Burney,
much to the astonishment of Windham, who knew her friendship for Burke,
declared herself a partisan of Hastings, while at the same time she
admitted that she knew nothing of the merits of the case—had not even
read the charges against the late Governor-General. "I had afterwards,"
she writes, "to relate a great part of this to the Queen herself. She
saw me engaged in such close discourse, and with such apparent interest
on both sides, with Mr. Windham, that I knew she must else form
conjectures innumerable. So candid, so liberal is the mind of the Queen,
that she not only heard me with the most favourable attention towards
Mr. Windham, but was herself touched even to tears by the relation. We
stayed but a short time after this last conference; for nothing more was
attempted than reading over the charges and answers, in the same useless
manner."
Miss Burney went again to Westminster Hall on the second day of Burke's
opening speech:
"All I had heard of his eloquence, and all I had conceived of his
great abilities, was more than answered by his performance. Nervous,
clear, and striking was almost all that he uttered: the main business,
indeed, of his coming forth was frequently neglected, and not seldom
wholly lost; but his excursions were so fanciful, so entertaining, and
so ingenious, that no miscellaneous hearer, like myself, could blame
them. It is true he was unequal, but his inequality produced an effect
which, in so long a speech, was perhaps preferable to greater
consistency, since, though it lost attention in its falling off, it
recovered it with additional energy by some ascent unexpected and
wonderful. When he narrated, he was easy, flowing, and natural; when
he declaimed, energetic, warm, and brilliant. The sentiments he
interspersed were as nobly conceived as they were highly ; his
satire had a poignancy of wit that made it as entertaining as it was
penetrating; his allusions and quotations, as far as they were English
and within my reach, were apt and ingenious; and the wild and sudden
flights of his fancy, bursting forth from his creative imagination in
language fluent, forcible, and varied, had a charm for my ear and my
attention wholly new and perfectly irresistible."
She was again visited in her box by Windham, who, on Hastings happening
to look up, remarked that he did not like his countenance. "I could have
told him," says Fanny, "that he is reckoned extremely like himself; but
after such an observation I would not venture, and only said: 'Indeed,
he is extremely altered: it was not so he looked when I conceived for
him that prepossession I have owned to you.'" The Queen's reporter, for
such she was, attended a third time on the day after the Lords had
enraged the Managers by deciding that they must complete their case upon
all the charges before the accused was called on for any defence. She
heard Mr. Fox speak for five hours with a violence that did not make her
forget what she was told of his being in a fury. His eloquence was not
nearly so much to her taste as Burke's. Fox's countenance struck her as
hard and callous; his violence, she thought, had that sort of monotony
that seemed to result from its being factitious, and she felt less
pardon for that than for any extravagance in Mr. Burke, whose excesses
seemed at least to be unaffected and sincere. Mr. Fox appeared to her to
have no such excuse; 'he looked all good-humour and negligent ease the
instant before he began a speech of uninterrupted passion and vehemence,
and he wore the same careless and disengaged air the very instant he had
finished.' After other attendances at the trial, Miss Burney's mind was
withdrawn from the subject in which she took so much interest by the
last illness and death of Mrs. Delany. The old lady, who died on the
15th of April, 1788, left some small remembrances to the friend whose
companionship had soothed her latter days.
CHAPTER VIII.
The King's Health—Royal Visit to Cheltenham—Excursions—Robert Raikes—
Colonel Digby—The Duke of York—The Court attends the Musical Festival
at Worcester—Return to Windsor—M. de Lalande, the Astronomer—His
Compliments—His Volubility—Illness of the King—The King grows worse—
'The Queen is my Physician'—Alarm and Agitation—Grief of the Queen—The
King Insane—Arrival of the Prince of Wales—Paroxysm of the King at
Dinner—The Queen Ill—The Physicians—The Royal Pair separated—The
Prince takes the Government at the Palace—Prayers for the King's
Recovery—The King and his Equerries—Sir Lucas Pepys—A Privy Council—
Preparations for leaving Windsor—Departure for Kew—Mournful Spectacle—
Mrs. Schwellenberg arrives.
For many years George III. had enjoyed unbroken good health. 'The King,'
wrote a well-informed gossipper[85] in January, 1788, 'walks twelve
miles on his way from Windsor to London, which is more than the Prince
of Wales can do.' Early in June, however, his Majesty was disturbed by
passing symptoms, which proved to be fore-runners of an illness famous
in English history. The complaint, in its first stage, was called a
bilious attack; and when the patient appeared to have thrown it off, he
was advised by his physician to drink the waters at Cheltenham for a
month, in order to complete his recovery. On June 8, the King sent his
old friend Dr. Hurd, Bishop of Worcester, a letter, in which he
announced his intended journey into Gloucestershire; and, at the same
time, proposed to enlarge his excursion by paying a visit to Hartlebury,
and afterwards attending the Festival of the Three Choirs, which that
year was to be held at Worcester. His Majesty went on to say that, as
feeding the hungry was a Christian duty, he should expect his
correspondent, while welcoming the sovereign to his cathedral city, to
provide some cold meat for his refreshment.
The hearty old English gentleman, in fact, was minded to enjoy his
holiday in the homely way that pleased him best. On July 12, the Court
travelled from Windsor to Cheltenham, where Bays Hill Lodge, a seat of
the Earl of Fauconberg, situated just outside the town, had been engaged
for the royal party. The Lodge was so small that their Majesties, with
the three eldest Princesses who accompanied them, could only be housed
there at a considerable sacrifice of state and ceremony. No bed could be
provided within its walls for any male person but the King. The female
attendants on the Queen and her daughters were limited to one
lady-in-waiting, Miss Burney, Miss Planta, and the wardrobe women.
'Is _this_ little room for your Majesty?' exclaimed Fanny, in
astonishment.
'Stay till you see your own,' retorted the Queen, laughing, 'before you
call this little.'
Colonel Gwynn, the King's equerry, and Colonel Digby, the Queen's
vice-chamberlain, slept in a house at some distance. The Queen consented
to dine with these officers, though until then the German etiquette in
which she was trained had prevented her from sitting at table with men
of much higher rank.
During his stay at Cheltenham, the King drank the waters at six o'clock
every morning, and afterwards took exercise in the 'Walks.' This parade
was conducted in the same manner as the terracing at Windsor. The King
led the way, with the Queen leaning on his arm; the Princesses followed
them; and the equerry brought up the rear. The unaccustomed spectacle
drew crowds from the town and the country round, causing at first a good
deal of inconvenience, which the King bore with his usual good-nature.
In the course of July, he made excursions with his family to several
places of interest in the neighbourhood: to Oakley Grove, the seat of
Lord Bathurst, patron of Pope and Prior, and friend of Bolingbroke and
Atterbury; to the Abbey Church of Tewkesbury; to Gloucester Cathedral;
to Croome Court, the abode of Lord Coventry and his beautiful Countess.
Miss Burney and Miss Planta were not of the suite on these expeditions,
and altogether enjoyed much more liberty than fell to their lot at
Windsor or Kew. Sometimes they amused themselves by making little
excursions on their own account. On the day of the royal visit to Oakley
Grove, they went over to Gloucester, where Miss Planta had an
acquaintance in the person of the philanthropic printer, Robert Raikes,
still remembered as the originator of Sunday-schools. Mr. Raikes felt
himself a man of importance; he had been invited to Windsor, and had had
the honour of a long conversation with the Queen. Apparently the notice
taken of him had left traces on his manner. 'He is somewhat too
flourishing,' Fanny whispered to her Diary, 'somewhat too forward,
somewhat too voluble; but he is worthy, benevolent, good-natured, and
good-hearted, and therefore the over-flowings of successful spirits and
delighted vanity must meet with some allowance.' Bating this little
self-complacency, the good man proved himself a capital host and guide,
entertaining the royal attendants in a handsome and painstaking manner,
which obtained their warm acknowledgments.
But Miss Burney beguiled her leisure principally in improving her
acquaintance with Colonel Digby, who paid her marked attention during
their attendance at the Gloucestershire watering-place. This courteous,
insinuating colonel suited her taste far better than the more
soldier-like equerries whom she met at Court. She had conceived a
decided inclination for him from the moment of his first introduction to
her. 'He is a man,' she then wrote, 'of the most scrupulous
good-breeding; diffident, gentle, and sentimental in his conversation,
and assiduously attentive in his manners.' He had now the additional
recommendation that belongs to a widower grieving over joys departed,
yet not despairing of consolation. In this state of mind, he neglected
no opportunity of making himself agreeable to a lady whose disposition
was so congenial to his own. Even a fit of the gout, which detained him
from his official duties, could not prevent him from limping over to the
Lodge to sit with Miss Burney. They talked of many things, but chiefly
of books, of the affections, of happiness, and of religion. The famous
authoress astonished her admirer not a little by the discovery she was
fain to make of the many books she had never yet read. Her candour
encouraged him to produce his own stores of literature, which were much
more extensive than hers. This pensive gentleman, we need scarcely say,
was addicted to reciting poetry and passages of pious sentiment. One
line especially, which was often in his mouth, about 'the chastity of
silent woe,' Fanny found peculiarly beautiful, though it might have
reminded her of the Irish Commissary whom she had met at Brighton. Very
soon quotations were succeeded by readings. The pair studied together
Akenside's poems, Falconer's 'Shipwreck,' Carr's Sermons, and a work[86]
entitled 'Original Love-Letters,' with which we own ourselves
unacquainted. Presently, however, as the air of Cheltenham did not
appear to suit the Colonel's gout, he began to think of taking leave of
absence.
A visit from the Duke of York was expected while the Court was at
Cheltenham. So eager was the King for the society of this his favourite
son, that he caused a portable wooden house to be moved from the further
end of the town, and joined on to Bays Hill Lodge, for the reception of
the Prince and his attendants. The work consumed much time and money,
but the fond father was bent on lodging his Frederick close to himself.
All this care and affection met with the too familiar return. The Duke
arrived on August 1, according to his appointment; and Miss Burney
describes the King's joy as only less extreme than the transport he had
shown when, a year before, she had seen the darling appear at Windsor
after long absence in Germany. But the Prince, so much looked for, would
remain no more than a single night. Military business, he declared,
required him to be in London by the next day but one, which was Sunday;
however, he would travel all Saturday night that he might be able to
spend a second evening with his parents. 'I wonder,' cried Colonel
Digby, with the sententious propriety which charmed our Fanny, 'how
these Princes, who are thus forced to steal even their travelling from
their sleep, find time to say their prayers!'
On August 5 the Court visited Worcester for the purpose of attending the
Musical Festival. When the royal _cortége_ stopped at the Bishop's
palace, "the King had an huzza that seemed to vibrate through the whole
town, the Princess Royal's carriage had a second, and the equerries a
third. The mob then," proceeds the Diary, "as ours drew on in
succession, seemed to deliberate whether or not we also should have a
cheer; but one of them soon decided the matter by calling out, 'These
are the maids of honour!' and immediately gave us an huzza that made us
quite ashamed." The opening performance of the Festival next morning did
not much gratify the historian. 'It was very long and intolerably
tedious, consisting of Handel's gravest pieces and fullest choruses, and
concluding with a sermon, concerning the institution of the charity,
preached by Dr. Langhorne.'[87] A second morning performance to which
she went did not strike her more favourably. One of the evening concerts
she liked better. Of another she observes that it 'was very Handelian,
though not exclusively so.'
At the close of the Festival the royal party and their suite returned to
Cheltenham. On the same evening Colonel Digby took his departure,
'leaving me,' says Fanny, 'firmly impressed with a belief that I shall
find in him a true, an honourable, and even an affectionate friend for
life.' Next day an express came from him with a letter for Miss Burney,
begging her to inform the Queen that the Mastership of St. Katharine's
Hospital, which was in her Majesty's gift, had just become void by the
death of the occupant. In a few more days it was announced that the
vacant appointment had been conferred on Mr. Digby.
By August 16, the Court was again established at Windsor, and a rumour
began to circulate of the Colonel's gallantry at Cheltenham, mingled
with a second rumour of his being then confined by gout at a house where
lived Miss Gunning, for whom he had been supposed to have an admiration.
Both reports were disregarded by Mrs. Schwellenberg's assistant, who
could think of nothing but the change from the pleasant society which
she had lately enjoyed to the arrogance, the contentiousness, the
presuming ignorance, that assailed her in the hated dining-room at the
Queen's Lodge. 'What scales,' she wrote, 'could have held and weighed
the heart of F. B. as she drove past the door of her revered lost
comforter, to enter the apartment inhabited by such qualities!'
One strange visitor, however, she had at starting, who provided her with
some little amusement:
"AUGUST 18TH.—Well, now I have a new personage to introduce to you,
and no small one; ask else the stars, moon and planets! While I was
surrounded with band-boxes, and unpacking, Dr. Shepherd[88] was
announced. Eager to make his compliments on the safe return, he forced
a passage through the back avenues and stairs, for he told me he did
not like being seen coming to me at the front door, as it might create
some jealousies amongst the other Canons! A very commendable
circumspection! but whether for my sake or his own he did not
particularize.
"M. de Lalande, he said, the famous astronomer, was just arrived in
England, and now at Windsor, and he had expressed a desire to be
introduced to me....
"His business was to settle bringing M. de Lalande to see me in the
evening. I told him I was much honoured, and so forth, but that I
received no evening company, as I was officially engaged. He had made
the appointment, he said, and could not break it, without affronting
him; besides, he gave me to understand it would be an honour to me for
ever to be visited by so great an astronomer....
"In the midst of tea, with a room full of people, I was called out to
Dr. Shepherd!... I hurried into the next room, where I found him with
his friend, M. de Lalande. What a reception awaited me! how unexpected
a one from a famed and great astronomer! M. de Lalande advanced to
meet me—I will not be quite positive it was on tiptoe, but certainly
with a mixture of jerk and strut that could not be quite flat-footed.
He kissed his hand with the air of a _petit maître_, and then broke
forth into such an harangue of Eloges, so solemn with regard to its
own weight and importance, and so _fade_ with respect to the little
personage addressed, that I could not help thinking it lucky for the
planets, stars, and sun, they were not bound to hear his comments,
though obliged to undergo his calculations.
"On my part sundry profound reverences with now and then an '_Oh,
monsieur!_' or '_c'est trop d'honneur_,' acquitted me so well, that
the first harangue being finished, on the score of general and grand
reputation, Eloge the second began, on the excellence with which
'_cette célèbre demoiselle_' spoke French!
"This may surprise you, my dear friends; but you must consider M. de
Lalande is a great _discoverer_.
"Well, but had you seen Dr. Shepherd! he looked lost in sleek delight
and wonder, that a person to whom he had introduced M. de Lalande
should be an object for such fine speeches.
"This gentleman's figure, meanwhile, corresponds no better with his
discourse than his scientific profession, for he is an ugly little
wrinkled old man, with a fine showy waistcoat, rich lace ruffles, and
the grimaces of a dentist. I believe he chose to display that a
Frenchman of science could be also a man of gallantry.
"I was seated between them, but the good doctor made no greater
interruption to the florid professor than I did myself: he only
grinned applause, with placid, but ineffable satisfaction.
"Nothing therefore intervening, _Eloge_ the third followed, after a
pause no longer than might be necessary for due admiration of _Eloge_
the second. This had for _sujet_ the fair female sex; how the ladies
were now all improved; how they could write, and read, and spell; how
a man nowadays might talk with them and be understood, and how
delightful it was to see such pretty creatures turned rational!
"And all this, of course, interspersed with particular observations
and most pointed applications; nor was there in the whole string of
compliments which made up the three _bouquets_, one single one amongst
them that might have disgraced any _petit maître_ to utter, or any
_petite maîtresse_ to hear.
"The third being ended, a rather longer pause ensued. I believe he was
dry, but I offered him no tea. I would not voluntarily be accessory to
detaining such great personages from higher avocations. I wished him
next to go and study the stars; from the moon he seemed so lately
arrived there was little occasion for another journey.
"I flatter myself he was of the same opinion, for the fourth _Eloge_
was all upon his unhappiness in tearing himself away from so much
merit, and ended in as many bows as had accompanied his entrance.
"I suppose, in going, he said, with a shrug, to the Canon, '_M. le
Docteur, c'est bien gênant, mais il faut dire des jolies choses aux
dames!_'
"He was going the next day to see Dr. Maskelyne's[89] Observatory.
Well! I have had him first in mine!"
The King, at his return to Windsor, appeared to be restored to his usual
health. In less than two months, however, he was again out of order. We
give the most noteworthy passage in Miss Burney's account of his
subsequent illness as it fell under her observation. She was doing
double duty at this time, in the absence of Mrs. Schwellenberg, who had
gone to Weymouth for her health. The Court was at Kew when the first
apprehensions arose:
"OCTOBER 17TH.—Our return to Windsor is postponed till to-morrow. The
King is not well; he has not been quite well some time, yet nothing I
hope alarming, though there is an uncertainty as to his complaint not
very satisfactory.
"19TH.—The Windsor journey is again postponed, and the King is but
very indifferent. Heaven preserve him! there is something unspeakably
alarming in his smallest indisposition. I am very much with the Queen,
who, I see, is very uneasy, but she talks not of it.
"20TH.—The King was taken very ill in the night, and we have all been
cruelly frightened; but it went off, and, thank Heaven! he is now
better.
"25TH.—The King was so much better, that our Windsor journey at length
took place, with permission of Sir George Baker,[90] the only
physician his Majesty will admit.
"I had a sort of conference with his Majesty, or rather I was the
object to whom he spoke, with a manner so uncommon, that a high fever
alone could account for it; a rapidity, a hoarseness of voice, a
volubility, an earnestness—a vehemence, rather—it startled me
inexpressibly, yet with a graciousness exceeding all I ever met with
before—it was almost kindness! Heaven—Heaven preserve him! The Queen
grows more and more uneasy. She alarms me sometimes for herself; at
other times she has a sedateness that wonders me still more.
"SUNDAY, OCT. 26TH.—The King was prevailed upon not to go to chapel
this morning. I met him in the passage from the Queen's room; he
stopped me, and conversed upon his health near half an hour, still
with that extreme quickness of speech and manner that belongs to
fever; and he hardly sleeps, he tells me, one minute all night;
indeed, if he recovers not his rest, a most delirious fever seems to
threaten him. He is all agitation, all emotion, yet all benevolence
and goodness, even to a degree that makes it touching to hear him
speak. He assures everybody of his health; he seems only fearful to
give uneasiness to others, yet certainly he is better than last night.
Nobody speaks of his illness, nor what they think of it.
"NOVEMBER 1ST.—Our King does not advance in amendment; he grows so
weak that he walks like a gouty man, yet has such spirits that he has
talked away his voice, and is so hoarse it is painful to hear him. The
Queen is evidently in great uneasiness. God send him better!...
"During the reading this morning, twice, at pathetic passages, my poor
Queen shed tears. 'How nervous I am!' she cried; 'I am quite a fool!
Don't you think so?'
"'No, ma'am!' was all I dared answer.
"The King was hunting. Her anxiety for his return was greater than
ever. The moment he arrived he sent a page to desire to have coffee
and take his bark in the Queen's dressing-room. She said she would
pour it out herself, and sent to inquire how he drank it.
"The King is very sensible of the great change there is in himself,
and of her disturbance at it. It seems, but Heaven avert it! a threat
of a total breaking up of the constitution. This, too, seems his own
idea. I was present at his first seeing Lady Effingham on his return
to Windsor this last time. 'My dear Effy,' he cried, 'you see me, all
at once, an old man.'
"I was so much affected by this exclamation, that I wished to run out
of the room. Yet I could not but recover when Lady Effingham, in her
well-meaning but literal way, composedly answered, 'We must all grow
old, sir; I am sure I do.'
"He then produced a walking-stick which he had just ordered. 'He could
not,' he said, 'get on without it; his strength seemed diminishing
hourly.'
"He took the bark, he said; 'but the _Queen_' he cried, 'is my
physician, and no man need have a better; she is my _Friend_, and no
man _can_ have a better.'
"How the Queen commanded herself I cannot conceive.... Nor can I ever
forget him in what passed this night. When I came to the Queen's
dressing-room he was still with her. He constantly conducts her to it
before he retires to his own. He was begging her not to speak to him
when he got to his room, that he might fall asleep, as he felt great
want of that refreshment. He repeated this desire, I believe, at least
a hundred times, though, far enough from needing it, the poor Queen
never uttered one syllable; He then applied to me, saying he was
really very well, except in that one particular, that he could not
sleep....
"3RD.—We are all here in a most uneasy state. The King is better and
worse so frequently, and changes so, daily, backwards and forwards,
that everything is to be apprehended, if his nerves are not some way
quieted. I dreadfully fear he is on the eve of some severe fever. The
Queen is almost overpowered with some secret terror. I am affected
beyond all expression in her presence, to see what struggles she makes
to support serenity. To-day she gave up the conflict when I was alone
with her, and burst into a violent fit of tears. It was very, very
terrible to see!...
"5TH.—I found my poor Royal Mistress, in the morning, sad and sadder
still; something horrible seemed impending....
"I was still wholly unsuspicious of the greatness of the cause she had
for dread. Illness, a breaking up of the constitution, the payment of
sudden infirmity and premature old age for the waste of unguarded
health and strength—these seemed to me the threats awaiting her; and
great and grievous enough, yet how short of the fact!...
"At noon the King went out in his chaise, with the Princess Royal, for
an airing. I looked from my window to see him; he was all smiling
benignity, but gave so many orders to the postilions, and got in and
out of the carriage twice, with such agitation, that again my fear of
a great fever hanging over him grew more and more powerful. Alas! how
little did I imagine I should see him no more for so long—so black a
period!
"When I went to my poor Queen, still worse and worse I found her
spirits....
"The Princess Royal soon returned. She came in cheerfully, and gave,
in German, a history of the airing, and one that seemed comforting.
"Soon after, suddenly arrived the Prince of Wales. He came into the
room. He had just quitted Brighthelmstone. Something passing within
seemed to render this meeting awfully distant on both sides. She asked
if he should not return to Brighthelmstone? He answered yes, the next
day. He desired to speak with her; they retired together....
"Only Miss Planta dined with me. We were both nearly silent: I was
shocked at I scarcely knew what, and she seemed to know too much for
speech. She stayed with me till six o'clock, but nothing passed,
beyond general solicitude that the King might get better.
"Meanwhile, a stillness the most uncommon reigned over the whole
house. Nobody stirred; not a voice was heard; not a motion. I could do
nothing but watch, without knowing for what: there seemed a
strangeness in the house most extraordinary.
"At seven o'clock Columb came to tell me that the music was all
forbid, and the musicians ordered away!
"This was the last step to be expected, so fond as his Majesty is of
his concert, and I thought it might have rather soothed him: I could
not understand the prohibition; all seemed stranger and stranger."
One after another, the usual evening visitors made their appearance.
First the equerries, and then Colonel Digby, who had reached the palace
that afternoon, came in to tea. "Various small speeches now dropped, by
which I found the house was all in disturbance, and the King in some
strange way worse, and the Queen taken ill!" Presently the whole truth
was divulged. "The King, at dinner, had broken forth into positive
delirium, which long had been menacing all who saw him most closely; and
the Queen was so overpowered as to fall into violent hysterics. All the
Princesses were in misery, and the Prince of Wales had burst into tears.
No one knew what was to follow—no one could conjecture the event."
At ten o'clock, Miss Burney went to her own room to be in readiness for
her usual summons to the Queen:
"Two long hours I waited—alone, in silence, in ignorance, in dread! I
thought they would never be over; at twelve o'clock I seemed to have
spent two whole days in waiting.... I then opened my door, to listen,
in the passage, if anything seemed stirring. Not a sound could I hear.
My apartment seemed wholly separated from life and motion. Whoever was
in the house kept at the other end, and not even a servant crossed the
stairs or passage by my rooms.
"I would fain have crept on myself, anywhere in the world, for some
inquiry, or to see but a face, and hear a voice, but I did not dare
risk losing a sudden summons.
"I re-entered my room, and there passed another endless hour, in
conjectures too horrible to relate.
"A little after one, I heard a step—my door opened—and a page said I
must come to the Queen.
"I could hardly get along—hardly force myself into the room; dizzy I
felt, almost to falling. But the first shock passed, I became more
collected. Useful, indeed, proved the previous lesson of the evening:
it had stilled, if not mortified my mind, which had else, in a scene
such as this, been all tumult and emotion.
"My poor Royal Mistress! never can I forget her countenance—pale,
ghastly pale she looked; she was seated to be undressed, and attended
by Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave and Miss Goldsworthy; her whole frame was
disordered, yet she was still and quiet.
"These two ladies assisted me to undress her, or rather I assisted
them, for they were firmer, from being longer present; my shaking
hands and blinded eyes could scarce be of any use.
"I gave her some camphor julep, which had been ordered her by Sir
George Baker. 'How cold I am!' she cried, and put her hand on mine;
marble it felt! and went to my heart's core!
"The King, at the instance of Sir George Baker, had consented to sleep
in the next apartment, as the Queen was ill. For himself, he would
listen to nothing. Accordingly, a bed was put up for him, by his own
order, in the Queen's second dressing-room, immediately adjoining to
the bedroom. He would not be further removed. Miss Goldsworthy was to
sit up with her, by the King's direction.
"I would fain have remained in the little dressing-room, on the other
side the bedroom, but she would not permit it.... I went to bed,
determined to preserve my strength to the utmost of my ability, for
the service of my unhappy mistress. I could not, however, sleep. I do
not suppose an eye was closed in the house all night.
"6TH.—I rose at six, dressed in haste by candle-light, and unable to
wait for my summons in a suspense so awful, I stole along the passage
in the dark, a thick fog intercepting all faint light, to see if I
could meet with Sandys,[91] or anyone, to tell me how the night had
passed.
"When I came to the little dressing-room, I stopped, irresolute what
to do. I heard men's voices; I was seized with the most cruel alarm at
such a sound in her Majesty's dressing-room. I waited some time, and
then the door opened, and I saw Colonel Goldsworthy and Mr.
Batterscomb. I was relieved from my first apprehension, yet shocked
enough to see them there at this early hour. They had both sat up
there all night, as well as Sandys. Every page, both of the King and
Queen, had also sat up, dispersed in the passages and ante-rooms; and
oh, what horror in every face I met!
"I waited here, amongst them, till Sandys was ordered by the Queen to
carry her a pair of gloves. I could not resist the opportunity to
venture myself before her. I glided into the room, but stopped at the
door: she was in bed, sitting up; Miss Goldsworthy was on a stool by
her side!
"I feared approaching without permission, yet could not prevail with
myself to retreat. She was looking down, and did not see me. Miss
Goldsworthy, turning round, said, ''Tis Miss Burney, ma'am.'
"She leaned her head forward, and in a most soft manner, said, 'Miss
Burney, how are you?'
"Deeply affected, I hastened up to her; but, in trying to speak, burst
into an irresistible torrent of tears.
"My dearest friends, I do it at this moment again, and can hardly
write for them; yet I wish you to know all this piercing history
right.
"She looked like death—colourless and wan; but nature is infectious;
the tears gushed from her own eyes, and a perfect agony of weeping
ensued, which, once begun, she could not stop; she did not, indeed,
try; for when it subsided, and she wiped her eyes, she said, 'I thank
you, Miss Burney—you have made me cry; it is a great relief to me—I
had not been able to cry before, all this night long.'
"Oh, what a scene followed! what a scene was related! The King, in the
middle of the night, had insisted upon seeing if his Queen was not
removed from the house; and he had come into her room, with a candle
in his hand, opened the bed-curtains, and satisfied himself she was
there, and Miss Goldsworthy by her side. This observance of his
directions had much soothed him; but he stayed a full half-hour, and
the depth of terror during that time no words can paint. The fear of
such another entrance was now so strongly upon the nerves of the poor
Queen that she could hardly support herself.
"The King—the royal sufferer—was still in the next room, attended by
Sir George Baker and Dr. Heberden,[92] and his pages, with Colonel
Goldsworthy occasionally, and as he called for him. He kept talking
unceasingly; his voice was so lost in hoarseness and weakness, it was
rendered almost inarticulate; but its tone was still all benevolence—
all kindness—all touching graciousness.
"It was thought advisable the Queen should not rise, lest the King
should be offended that she did not go to him; at present he was
content, because he conceived her to be nursing for her illness.
"But what a situation for her! She would not let me leave her now; she
... frequently bid me listen, to hear what the King was saying or
doing. I did, and carried the best accounts I could manage, without
deviating from truth, except by some omissions. Nothing could be so
afflicting as this task; even now, it brings fresh to my ear his poor
exhausted voice. 'I am nervous,' he cried; 'I am not ill, but I am
nervous: if you would know what is the matter with me, I am nervous.
But I love you both very well; if you would tell me truth: I love Dr.
Heberden best, for he has not told me a lie: Sir George has told me a
lie—a white lie, he says, but I hate a white lie! If you will tell me
a lie, let it be a black lie!'
"This was what he kept saying almost constantly, mixed in with other
matter, but always returning, and in a voice that truly will never
cease vibrating in my recollection."
In the course of the morning, a third physician—Dr. Warren[93]—arrived.
His opinion was eagerly awaited by the Queen; but he did not come to
her, though repeatedly summoned. At length, Lady Elizabeth brought news
that he and the other two physicians were gone over to the Castle to the
Prince of Wales.
"I think a deeper blow I had never witnessed. Already to become but
second, even for the King! The tears were now wiped: indignation
arose, with pain, the severest pain, of every species.
"In about a quarter of an hour Colonel Goldsworthy sent in to beg an
audience. It was granted, a long cloak only being thrown over the
Queen.
"He now brought the opinion of all the physicians in consultation,
'That her Majesty would remove to a more distant apartment, since the
King would undoubtedly be worse from the agitation of seeing her, and
there could be no possibility to prevent it while she remained so
near.'
"She instantly agreed, but with what bitter anguish! Lady Elizabeth,
Miss Goldsworthy, and myself attended her; she went to an apartment in
the same row, but to which there was no entrance except by its own
door. It consisted of only two rooms, a bedchamber, and a
dressing-room. They are appropriated to the lady-in-waiting when she
is here.
"At the entrance into this new habitation the poor wretched Queen once
more gave way to a perfect agony of grief and affliction; while the
words, 'What will become of me! What will become of me!' uttered with
the most piercing lamentation, struck deep and hard into all our
hearts. Never can I forget their desponding sound; they implied such
complicated apprehension."
Of the scene in the King's rooms that night, Miss Burney had only a
momentary glimpse. Being sent on some commission for the Queen, "When I
gently opened," she writes, "the door of the apartment to which I was
directed, I found it quite filled with gentlemen and attendants,
arranged round it on chairs and sofas, in dead silence. It was a
dreadful start with which I retreated; for anything more alarming and
shocking could not be conceived—the poor King within another door,
unconscious anyone was near him, and thus watched, by dread necessity,
at such an hour of the night!" How the hours passed she heard the next
day.
"7TH.—While I was yet with my poor royal sufferer this morning the
Prince of Wales came hastily into the room. He apologized for his
intrusion, and then gave a very energetic history of the preceding
night. It had been indeed most affectingly dreadful! The King had
risen in the middle of the night, and would take no denial to walking
into the next room. There he saw the large congress I have mentioned:
amazed and in consternation, he demanded what they did there? Much
followed that I have heard since, particularly the warmest eloge on
his dear son Frederick, his favourite, his friend. 'Yes,' he cried,
'Frederick is my friend!'—and this son was then present amongst the
rest, but not seen!
"Sir George Baker was there, and was privately exhorted by the
gentlemen to lead the King back to his room; but he had not courage:
he attempted only to speak, and the King penned him in a corner, told
him he was a mere old woman—that he wondered he had ever followed his
advice, for he knew nothing of his complaint, which was only nervous!
"The Prince of Wales, by signs and whispers, would have urged others
to have drawn him away, but no one dared approach him, and he remained
there a considerable time, 'Nor do I know when he would have been got
back,' continued the Prince, 'if at last Mr. Digby[94] had not
undertaken him. I am extremely obliged to Mr. Digby indeed.' He came
boldly up to him, and took him by the arm, and begged him to go to
bed, and then drew him along, and said he must go. Then he said he
would not, and cried, 'Who are you?' 'I am Mr. Digby, sir,' he
answered, 'and your Majesty has been very good to me often, and now I
am going to be very good to you, for you must come to bed, sir: it is
necessary to your life. And then he was so surprised that he let
himself be drawn along just like a child; and so they got him to bed.
I believe else he would have stayed all night!'"
On the following morning, an incident occurred which showed the
revolution that had taken place in the palace. Mr. Smelt had travelled
post from York on hearing of the King's illness, but had not yet been
able to see either him or the Queen. Accidentally meeting with the
Prince of Wales, he was received by his old pupil with much apparent
kindness of manner, and invited to remain at Windsor till he could be
admitted to the Queen's presence. Not small, then, was his surprise
when, on returning shortly afterwards to the Upper Lodge, the porter
handed him his great-coat, saying that he had express orders from the
Prince to refuse him re-admission.[95] 'From this time,' continues Miss
Burney, 'as the poor King grew worse, general hope seemed universally to
abate; and the Prince of Wales now took the government of the house into
his own hands. Nothing was done but by his orders, and he was applied to
in every difficulty. The Queen interfered not in anything; she lived
entirely in her two new rooms, and spent the whole day in patient sorrow
and retirement with her daughters.'
The next news which reached the suite was that the Prince had issued
commands to the porter to admit only four persons into the house on any
pretence whatever; and these were ordered to repair immediately to the
equerry-room below stairs, while no one whatsoever was to be allowed to
go to any other apartment. 'From this time,' adds the Diary, 'commenced
a total banishment from all intercourse out of the house, and an
unremitting confinement within its walls.' The situation was rendered
even more intolerable by the sudden return of Mrs. Schwellenberg from
Weymouth. On the 10th, Miss Burney writes: 'This was a most dismal day.
The dear and most suffering King was extremely ill, the Queen very
wretched, poor Mrs. Schwellenberg all spasm and horror, Miss Planta all
restlessness, the house all mystery, and my only informant and comforter
[Colonel Digby] distanced.'
Then began a series of tantalizing fluctuations. From November 12 to the
15th, the King showed some signs of amendment; but on Sunday, the 16th,
all was dark again in the Upper Lodge. 'The King was worse. His night
had been very bad; all the fair promise of amendment was shaken; he had
now some symptoms even dangerous to his life. Oh, good heaven! what a
day did this prove! I saw not a human face, save at dinner; and then
what faces! gloom and despair in all, and silence to every species of
intelligence.' The special prayer for the King's recovery was used this
day for the first time in St. George's Chapel. Evidences of the general
distress were apparent on all sides. 'Every prayer in the service in
which he was mentioned brought torrents of tears from all the suppliants
that joined in them.' Fanny ran away after the service to avoid
inquiries.
Of the afternoon she writes: 'It was melancholy to see the crowds of
former welcome visitors who were now denied access. The Prince
reiterated his former orders; and I perceived from my window those who
had ventured to the door returning back in tears.' She received letters
of inquiry, but was not at liberty to write a word. The night of the
19th was no better than that of the 16th. 'Mr. Charles Hawkins came,'
proceeds the Diary. 'He had sat up. Oh, how terrible a narrative did he
drily give of the night!—short, abrupt, peremptorily bad, and
indubitably hopeless. I did not dare alter, but I greatly softened this
relation, in giving it to my poor Queen.' On this day Dr. Warren told
Mr. Pitt that there was now every reason to believe that the King's
disorder was no other than actual lunacy.
All the equerries, except one who was ill, were now on duty. The King,
in his rambling talk, reproached them with want of attention. They lost
their whole time at table, he said, by sitting so long over their
bottle; 'and Mr. Digby,' he added on one occasion, 'is as bad as any of
them; not that he stays so long at table, or is so fond of wine, but yet
he's just as late as the rest; for he's so fond of the company of
learned ladies, that he gets to the tea-table with Miss Burney, and
there he stays and spends his whole time.' Colonel Digby, in repeating
this speech to the lady interested, was good enough to explain to her
that what the King had in his head was—Miss Gunning. The Colonel went on
to mention Miss Gunning's learning and accomplishments with great
praise, yet 'with that sort of general commendation that disclaims all
peculiar interest;' touched, in a tone of displeasure, on the report
that had been spread concerning him and her; lightly added something
about its utter falsehood; and concluded by saying that this, in the
then confused state of the King's mind, was what his Majesty meant by
'learned ladies.' More puzzled than enlightened by this explanation,
Fanny, with some hesitation, assented to the insinuating Chamberlain's
suggestion that she should think no more of what the King had said, but
allow the Colonel 'to come and drink tea with her very often.'
From the 20th to the 28th there was no improvement in the condition of
the sick monarch. Nearly all who saw him, whether physicians or members
of the suite, began to abandon hope of his recovery; only Sir Lucas
Pepys, an old friend of the Burneys, who was now added to the medical
attendants, inclined to a more encouraging view. The proceedings of the
28th are entered in the Diary, as follows:
"Sir Lucas made me a visit, and informed me of all the medical
proceedings; and told me, in confidence, we were to go to Kew
to-morrow, though the Queen herself had not yet concurred in the
measure; but the physicians joined to desire it, and they were
supported by the Princes. The difficulty how to get the King away from
his favourite abode was all that rested. If they even attempted force,
they had not a doubt but his smallest resistance would call up the
whole country to his fancied rescue! Yet how, at such a time, prevail
by persuasion?
"He moved me even to tears, by telling me that none of their own lives
would be safe if the King did not recover, so prodigiously high ran
the tide of affection and loyalty. All the physicians received
threatening letters daily, to answer for the safety of their monarch
with their lives! Sir George Baker had already been stopped in his
carriage by the mob, to give an account of the King; and when he said
it was a bad one, they had furiously exclaimed, 'The more shame for
you!'
"After he left me, a Privy Council was held at the Castle, with the
Prince of Wales; the Chancellor, Mr. Pitt, and all the officers of
state were summoned, to sign a permission for the King's removal. The
poor Queen gave an audience to the Chancellor—it was necessary to
sanctify their proceedings. The Princess Royal and Lady Courtown
attended her. It was a tragedy the most dismal!
"The Queen's knowledge of the King's aversion to Kew made her consent
to this measure with the extremest reluctance; yet it was not to be
opposed: it was stated as much the best for him, on account of the
garden: as here there is none but what is public to spectators from
the terrace, or tops of houses. I believe they were perfectly right,
though the removal was so tremendous.
"The physicians were summoned to the Privy Council, to give their
opinions, upon oath, that this step was necessary.
"Inexpressible was the alarm of everyone, lest the King, if he
recovered, should bear a lasting resentment against the authors and
promoters of this journey. To give it, therefore, every possible
sanction, it was decreed that he should be seen both by the Chancellor
and Mr. Pitt.
"The Chancellor went into his presence with a tremor such as, before,
he had been only accustomed to inspire; and when he came out, he was
so extremely affected by the state in which he saw his Royal master
and patron that the tears ran down his cheeks, and his feet had
difficulty to support him.
"Mr. Pitt was more composed, but expressed his grief with so much
respect and attachment, that it added new weight to the universal
admiration with which he is here beheld.
"All these circumstances, with various others of equal sadness which I
must not relate, came to my knowledge through Sir Lucas, Mr. de Luc,
and my noon attendance upon her Majesty, who was compelled to dress
for her audience of the Chancellor.
"SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 29TH.—Shall I ever forget the varied emotions of
this dreadful day!
"I rose with the heaviest of hearts, and found my poor Royal Mistress
in the deepest dejection: she told me now of our intended expedition
to Kew. Lady Elizabeth hastened away to dress, and I was alone with
her for some time.
"Her mind, she said, quite misgave her about Kew: the King's dislike
was terrible to think of, and she could not foresee in what it might
end. She would have resisted the measure herself, but that she had
determined not to have upon her own mind any opposition to the opinion
of the physicians.
"The account of the night was still more and more discouraging: it was
related to me by one of the pages, Mr. Brawan; and though a little I
softened or omitted particulars, I yet most sorrowfully conveyed it to
the Queen.
"Terrible was the morning!—uninterruptedly terrible! all spent in
hasty packing up, preparing for we knew not what, nor for how long,
nor with what circumstances, nor scarcely with what view! We seemed
preparing for captivity, without having committed any offence; and for
banishment, without the least conjecture when we might be recalled
from it.
"The poor Queen was to get off in private: the plan settled between
the Princes and the physicians was that her Majesty and the Princesses
should go away quietly, and then that the King should be told that
they were gone, which was the sole method they could devise to prevail
with him to follow. He was then to be allured by a promise of seeing
them at Kew; and, as they knew he would doubt their assertion, he was
to go through the rooms and examine the house himself.
"I believe it was about ten o'clock when her Majesty departed: drowned
in tears, she glided along the passage, and got softly into her
carriage, with two weeping Princesses, and Lady Courtown, who was to
be her Lady-in-waiting during this dreadful residence.
"Then followed the third Princess, with Lady Charlotte Finch. They
went off without any state or parade, and a more melancholy scene
cannot be imagined. There was not a dry eye in the house. The footmen,
the housemaids, the porter, the sentinels—all cried even bitterly as
they looked on....
"It was settled the King was to be attended by three of his gentlemen
in the carriage, and to be followed by the physicians, and preceded by
his pages. But all were to depart on his arrival at Kew, except his
own Equerry-in-waiting....
"Miss Planta and I were to go as soon as the packages could be ready,
with some of the Queen's things. Mrs. Schwellenberg was to remain
behind, for one day, in order to make arrangements about the
jewels....
"In what confusion was the house! Princes, Equerries, physicians,
pages—all conferring, whispering, plotting, and caballing, how to
induce the King to set off!
"At length we found an opportunity to glide through the passage to the
coach; Miss Planta and myself, with her maid and Goter....
"We were almost wholly silent all the way.
"When we arrived at Kew, we found the suspense with which the King was
awaited truly terrible. Her Majesty had determined to return to
Windsor at night, if he came not. We were all to forbear unpacking in
the meanwhile....
"Dinner went on, and still no King. We now began to grow very anxious,
when Miss Planta exclaimed that she thought she heard a carriage. We
all listened. 'I hope!' I cried.... The sound came nearer, and
presently a carriage drove into the front court. I could see nothing,
it was so dark; but I presently heard the much-respected voice of the
dear unhappy King, speaking rapidly to the porter, as he alighted from
the coach....
"The poor King had been prevailed upon to quit Windsor with the utmost
difficulty: he was accompanied by General Harcourt, his aide-de-camp,
and Colonels Goldsworthy and Welbred—no one else! He had passed all
the rest with apparent composure, to come to his carriage, for they
lined the passage, eager to see him once more! and almost all Windsor
was collected round the rails, etc., to witness the mournful spectacle
of his departure, which left them in the deepest despondence, with
scarce a ray of hope ever to see him again.
"The bribery, however, which brought, was denied him!—he was by no
means to see the Queen!...
"I could not sleep all night—I thought I heard the poor King. He was
under the same range of apartments, though far distant, but his
indignant disappointment haunted me. The Queen, too, was very angry at
having promises made in her name which could not be kept. What a day
altogether was this!
"SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 30TH.—Here, in all its dread colours, dark as its
darkest prognostics, began the Kew campaign. I went to my poor Queen
at seven o'clock: the Princess Augusta arose and went away to dress,
and I received her Majesty's commands to go down for inquiries. She
had herself passed a wretched night, and already lamented leaving
Windsor.
"I waited very long in the cold dark passages below, before I could
find anyone of whom to ask intelligence. The parlours were without
fires, and washing. I gave directions afterwards to have a fire in one
of them by seven o'clock every morning.
"At length I procured the speech of one of the pages, and heard that
the night had been the most violently bad of any yet passed!—and no
wonder!
"I hardly knew how to creep upstairs, frozen both within and without,
to tell such news; but it was not received as if unexpected, and I
omitted whatever was not essential to be known.
"Afterwards arrived Mrs. Schwellenberg, so oppressed between her
spasms and the house's horrors, that the oppression she inflicted
ought perhaps to be pardoned. It was, however, difficult enough to
bear! Harshness, tyranny, dissension, and even insult, seemed
personified. I cut short details upon this subject—they would but make
you sick."
-----
Footnote 85:
Mr. Storer, the friend of George Selwyn.
Footnote 86:
By William Combe [1741-1823
Footnote 87:
The writer and translator, 1735-1799.
Footnote 88:
One of the Canons of Windsor.
Footnote 89:
Dr. Maskelyne (1732-1811) was Astronomer Royal at the time.
Footnote 90:
Physician in Ordinary to the King: born 1722; died 1809.
Footnote 91:
Wardrobe-woman to the Queen.
Footnote 92:
William Heberden. Born in 1710; Fellow of St. John's College,
Cambridge; practised medicine at Cambridge; removed to London in
1748; wrote 'Medical Commentaries;' passed the later years of his
life at Windsor, where he died in 1801.
Footnote 93:
Richard Warren. Born about 1732; Fellow of the Royal and Antiquarian
Societies; Physician in Ordinary to George III. and the Prince of
Wales; died in 1797.
Footnote 94:
We have substituted the real name here for the 'Mr. Fairly' of the
printed Diary.
Footnote 95:
It is fair to mention that the Prince afterwards apologized to his old
sub-governor on meeting him at Kew.—Diary, iii. 117. Even Walpole,
chary as he usually is of praise, has done justice to the "singular
virtues and character," the "ignorance of the world as well as its
depravity," of this estimable person. "Happy for the Prince," adds
Walpole, "had he had no other governor; at least no other director of
his morals and opinions of government."—See Walpole's 'Reign of George
III.,' vol. iv., pp. 312, 313.
-----
CHAPTER IX.
State of Kew Palace—Dr. Willis and his Son called in—Progress under the
New Doctors—Party Spirit—The Regency Question—Attacks on the Queen—
Fluctuations in the King's State—Violence of Burke—Extraordinary Scene
between the King and Miss Burney in Kew Gardens—Marked Improvement of
the King—The Regency Bill postponed—The King informs Miss Burney of
his Recovery—The Restoration—Demonstrations of Joy—Return to Windsor—
Old Routine resumed—Reaction.
The beginning of December saw the diminished and imprisoned household
suffering under an increase of apprehensions. The condition of the King
became even more alarming; the Queen began to sink as she had not done
before. From the outer world came sinister rumours, the duration of the
malady threatening a Regency—'a word,' says Fanny, 'which I have not yet
been able to articulate.' Inside, the palace at Kew was 'in a state of
cold and discomfort past all imagination.' It had never been a winter
residence, and there was nothing prepared to fit it for becoming one.
Not only were the bedrooms of the Princesses without carpets, but so out
of repair was the building, that a plentiful supply of sandbags had to
be provided to moderate the gales that blew through the doors and
windows. The parlour in which Miss Burney had to sit with the
Schwellenberg was carpetless, chilly, and miserable; and even this was
locked in the morning on Fanny's admission of having used it before
breakfast; Cerbera barking out that, 'when everybody went to her room,
she might keep an inn—what you call hotel.' These domestic
inconveniences endured for some time. By degrees, however, the worst of
them were obviated. The bare boards were wholly or partially covered;
the apartments allotted to the family were refurnished and
redistributed; and Miss Burney was no longer exposed to the cold damps
of a dark passage while awaiting the page who brought her for the Queen
the first news of how the night had been passed by the patient.
Hitherto no progress had been made towards a successful treatment of the
King's malady. In the early days of December, however, even the Queen
felt it useless to disguise any longer the nature of the attack, and
experts in mental disease were accordingly added to the staff of
physicians. Fortunately, a right choice was made at the first trial. The
new advisers selected were Dr. Francis Willis, a clergyman who for
twenty-eight years had devoted himself to the cure of lunacy, and his
son, Dr. John Willis, who was associated with him in practice. The
arrival of these two country practitioners—they came from Lincolnshire—
revived the hopes which the Court physicians, by their dissensions and
general despondency, had well-nigh destroyed. Though decried by the
regular faculty as interlopers, if not charlatans, the Doctors Willis
took the hearts of all at Kew Palace by storm. Mr. Digby pronounced them
'fine, lively, natural, independent characters.' Miss Burney, on making
their acquaintance, heartily re-echoed this praise:
"I am extremely struck with both these physicians. Dr. Willis is a man
of ten thousand; open, honest, dauntless, light-hearted, innocent, and
high-minded: I see him impressed with the most animated reverence and
affection for his royal patient; but it is wholly for his character—
not a whit for his rank. Dr. John, his eldest son, is extremely
handsome, and inherits, in a milder degree, all the qualities of his
father; but living more in the general world, and having his fame and
fortune still to settle, he has not yet acquired the same courage, nor
is he, by nature, quite so sanguine in his opinions. The manners of
both are extremely pleasing, and they both proceed completely their
own way, not merely unacquainted with Court etiquette, but wholly, and
most artlessly, unambitious to form any such acquaintance."
The new doctors at once modified the treatment to which the King had
been subject, and the effects of the change were speedily apparent:
"DECEMBER 11TH.—To-day we have had the fairest hopes; the King took
his first walk in Kew garden! There have been impediments to this
trial hitherto, that have been thought insurmountable, though, in
fact, they were most frivolous. The walk seemed to do him good, and we
are all in better spirits about him than for this many and many a long
day past."
It was not to be expected that the advance to restoration would proceed
without break or check. On the 17th we have the entry: 'My account this
morning was quite afflictive once more;' but under date of the 22nd we
read: 'With what joy did I carry this morning an exceeding good account
of the King to my royal mistress! It was trebly welcome, as much might
depend upon it in the resolutions of the House concerning the Regency,
which was of to-day's discussion;' and in some notes summing up the
remaining days of the year, we have: 'The King went on, now better, now
worse, in a most fearful manner; but Sir Lucas Pepys never lost sight of
hope, and the management of Dr. Willis and his two sons[96] was most
wonderfully acute and successful. Yet, so much were they perplexed and
tormented by the interruptions given to their plans and methods, that
they were frequently almost tempted to resign the undertaking from anger
and confusion.'
The new year opened amid the same alternations of progress and relapse.
In society, the war of politics took a new departure from the King's
derangement. Supporters of the Administration were confident of his
speedy recovery; the Opposition were indefatigable in spreading the
belief that his disorder was incurable. The animosity on both sides rose
to a height which had not been equalled even at Pitt's first entrance
into office. 'It is a strange subject,' wrote the Archbishop of
Canterbury, 'for party to insist upon, and disgraceful to the country
that it should be so; but so it is.' Uneasiness and uncertainty
prevailed everywhere. Some of Miss Burney's best friends began to be
dismayed at her position, and at the prospect before her. Her sister
Charlotte, now Mrs. Francis, wrote from Norfolk, urging that Dr.
Burney's consent should be obtained to her resignation, and offering
her, on behalf of Mr. Francis and herself, a permanent residence in
their house. Evidently, Fanny's family regarded her as a helpless
person, requiring to be looked after and taken care of. Her faith,
however, in the comforting predictions of the Willises and Sir Lucas
Pepys remained unshaken, and she would not hear of quitting her post.
A fresh trouble had by this time arisen. The Queen could not escape
becoming involved in the strife of parties. The Prince of Wales and the
Duke of York were naturally impatient to push their afflicted father
from his seat. What they wanted in brains was amply supplied by the
combined genius of the Whig leaders—by Fox, and Burke, and Sheridan—all
embittered at having been so often checkmated by the young statesman
whom they had flouted as a mere boy. What the Princes lacked in tenacity
of purpose was driven into them by the incessant cry of myriad
place-hunters, yelling like famished wolves. The first thought of the
faction was how to clutch power as soon as might be; their second, how
to engross it as exclusively as possible. No scruple was made of
declaring that all places would be vacated and refilled, even if the
Regency were to last only a single day.[97] That there would be a
complete change of Administration was a matter of course. But beyond
this, changes were meditated in the army, and other departments of the
State, which it was known must grievously offend the King, should they
come to his knowledge. Among other promotions, every colonel in favour
with the Prince or the Duke was to be raised to the rank of
Major-General. Mrs. Fitzherbert, it was said, was to be created a
Duchess.[98]
Next to Pitt and his colleagues, the chief obstacle to the speedy
execution of these notable projects was Queen Charlotte. It was not to
be expected that a wife would be as ready as the heir-apparent to
believe in the confirmed insanity of the head of the house. It was
excusable, to say the least, that one who for more than twenty-eight
years had filled, without reproach, the station of Queen Consort, should
object to be effaced with her lord, until the necessity for his
seclusion was unmistakably demonstrated. And when discord raged in the
medical council, when Dr. Warren pronounced the King to be 'rather
worse' than he had been at Windsor, while to Sir Lucas and the
specialists, as well as to ordinary observers, his condition appeared
most hopeful, she might surely be pardoned for leaning to the favourable
view. Partisans, however, were too excited to listen to reason. The
clergyman from Lincolnshire was denounced in the Opposition newspapers
as a mere empiric and creature of Pitt. The most scurrilous abuse was
heaped upon the Queen. Both in the press, and in the House of Commons,
she was accused of being in league with Willis to misrepresent the state
of the King's health, in order to prevent the Prince, her son, from
being invested with the authority of Regent. Pitt, having no option but
to propose a Regency, was proceeding with the utmost caution, and
seeking to lay on the expectant Viceroy several restrictions, which his
character seemed to call for, and which assuredly have not been
disapproved by the judgment of posterity. Besides limiting the Prince's
power to confer peerages and pensions, and to alienate royal property,
the Premier recommended that the care and management of the King's
person, as well as the appointments in the household, should be
entrusted to the Queen. Perhaps no part of the Government's plan aroused
more angry hostility than this. 'How would the King on his recovery,'
demanded Burke in Parliament, 'be pleased at seeing the patronage of the
Household taken from the Prince of Wales, his representative, and given
to the Queen? He must be shocked at the idea.' Allusions to these
attacks on one who so little deserved them occur in Miss Burney's Diary
about this time:
"JANUARY 10TH.—The King again is not so well; and new evidences are
called for in the House, relative to his state. My poor Royal Mistress
now droops. I grieve—grieve to see her!—but her own name and conduct
called in question! Who can wonder she is shocked and shaken? Was
there not enough before, firmly as she supported it?
"11TH.—This morning Dr. John gave me but a bad account of the poor
King. His amendment is not progressive; it fails, and goes back, and
disappoints most grievously; yet it would be nothing were the case and
its circumstances less discussed, and were expectation more
reasonable.
"12TH.—A melancholy day: news bad both at home and abroad. At home,
the dear, unhappy King still worse; abroad, new examinations voted of
the physicians! Good Heaven! what an insult does this seem from
Parliamentary power, to investigate and bring forth to the world every
circumstance of such a malady as is ever held sacred to secrecy in the
most private families! How indignant we all feel here no words can
say."
Macaulay is very severe on poor Miss Burney for the want of correct
constitutional principles shown in this last entry. He cites the passage
to prove that the second Robe-Keeper's 'way of life was rapidly
impairing her powers of reasoning and her sense of justice;' that, as he
elsewhere says, this existence was as incompatible with health 'of mind
as the air of the Pomptine Marshes with health of body.' The critic is
perfectly right in stating that the motion which roused indignation at
Kew was made by Mr. Pitt, who was regarded as the King's champion,
though he should have added that it was brought forward in response to a
challenge from the Opposition. But Miss Burney felt as a woman, and
wrote as a woman, not as a politician. Had she been a politician, she
would still have been entitled to the indulgence which was being claimed
and abused by every speaker and journalist on the side opposed to the
Court. Consider the debates and the scandalous charges that she read
daily in the newspapers. And if she erred, she erred in company with a
large number of other heretics who should have been far better fortified
in sound doctrine than herself. If the atmosphere of the palace was
unwholesome, it was much less contaminating than the malaria of Carlton
House. If the novelist was wrong in thinking that the House of Commons
ought not to concern itself with the details of the King's illness, what
is to be said of the eminent Whigs who maintained that the Legislature
had nothing to do with any question relating to the disposition of the
regal authority? What shall be said for Alexander Wedderburn, then Chief
Justice of the Common Pleas, and afterwards Lord Chancellor, who advised
the Prince of Wales to seize on the Regency without consulting either
House of Parliament? Or what can be urged for Fox himself, who asserted
his patron's right to take this course, in the very face of the
assembled Commons? 'It is melancholy,' says Macaulay, 'to see genius
sinking into such debasement.' What words, then, shall we apply to
Edmund Burke, who scandalized both sides of the House by declaring that
'the Almighty had hurled the monarch from his throne, and plunged him
into a condition which drew down upon him the pity of the meanest
peasant in his kingdom'? Miss Burney, still feeling and writing as a
woman, could not accuse her old friend Burke of being debased, though
she sadly laments over him as 'that most misguided of vehement and wild
orators.'[99] Such was the virulence engendered in a spectator of the
misery at Court by associating with Leonard Smelt and Colonel Digby.
"KEW PALACE, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 2ND.—What an adventure had I this
morning! one that has occasioned me the severest personal terror I
ever experienced in my life.
"Sir Lucas Pepys still persisting that exercise and air were
absolutely necessary to save me from illness, I have continued my
walks, varying my gardens from Richmond to Kew, according to the
accounts I received of the movements of the King. For this I had her
Majesty's permission, on the representation of Sir Lucas.
"This morning, when I received my intelligence of the King from Dr.
John Willis, I begged to know where I might walk in safety. 'In Kew
Gardens,' he said, 'as the King would be in Richmond.'
"'Should any unfortunate circumstance,' I cried, 'at any time,
occasion my being seen by his Majesty, do not mention my name, but let
me run off without call or notice.'
"This he promised. Everybody, indeed, is ordered to keep out of sight.
"Taking, therefore, the time I had most at command, I strolled into
the gardens. I had proceeded, in my quick way, nearly half the round,
when I suddenly perceived, through some trees, two or three figures.
Relying on the instructions of Dr. John, I concluded them to be
workmen and gardeners; yet tried to look sharp, and in so doing, as
they were less shaded, I thought I saw the person of his Majesty!
"Alarmed past all possible expression, I waited not to know more, but
turning back, ran off with all my might. But what was my terror to
hear myself pursued!—to hear the voice of the King himself loudly and
hoarsely calling after me, 'Miss Burney! Miss Burney!'
"I protest I was ready to die. I knew not in what state he might be at
the time; I only knew the orders to keep out of his way were
universal; that the Queen would highly disapprove any unauthorised
meeting, and that the very action of my running away might deeply, in
his present irritable state, offend him. Nevertheless, on I ran, too
terrified to stop, and in search of some short passage, for the garden
is full of little labyrinths, by which I might escape.
"The steps still pursued me, and still the poor hoarse and altered
voice rang in my ears:—more and more footsteps resounded frightfully
behind me,—the attendants all running, to catch their eager master,
and the voices of the two Doctor Willises loudly exhorting him not to
heat himself so unmercifully.
"Heavens, how I ran! I do not think I should have felt the hot lava
from Vesuvius—at least, not the hot cinders—had I so run during its
eruption. My feet were not sensible that they even touched the ground.
"Soon after, I heard other voices, shriller, though less nervous, call
out, 'Stop! stop! stop!'
"I could by no means consent: I knew not what was purposed, but I
recollected fully my agreement with Dr. John that very morning, that I
should decamp if surprised, and not be named.
"My own fears and repugnance, also, after a flight and disobedience
like this, were doubled in the thought of not escaping: I knew not to
what I might be exposed, should the malady be then high, and take the
turn of resentment. Still, therefore, on I flew; and such was my
speed, so almost incredible to relate or recollect, that I fairly
believe no one of the whole party could have overtaken me, if these
words, from one of the attendants, had not reached me, 'Doctor Willis
begs you to stop!'
"'I cannot! I cannot!' I answered, still flying on, when he called
out, 'You must, ma'am; it hurts the King to run.'
"Then, indeed, I stopped—in a state of fear really amounting to agony.
I turned round, I saw the two Doctors had got the King between them,
and three attendants of Dr. Willis's were hovering about. They all
slackened their pace, as they saw me stand still; but such was the
excess of my alarm, that I was wholly insensible to the effects of a
race which, at any other time, would have required an hour's recruit.
"As they approached, some little presence of mind happily came to my
command: it occurred to me that, to appease the wrath of my flight, I
must now show some confidence: I therefore faced them as undauntedly
as I was able, only charging the nearest of the attendants to stand by
my side.
"When they were within a few yards of me, the King called out, 'Why
did you run away?'
"Shocked at a question impossible to answer, yet a little assured by
the mild tone of his voice, I instantly forced myself forward to meet
him, though the internal sensation, which satisfied me this was a step
the most proper to appease his suspicions and displeasure, was so
violently combated by the tremor of my nerves, that I fairly think I
may reckon it the greatest effort of personal courage I have ever
made.
"The effort answered: I looked up, and met all his wonted benignity of
countenance, though something still of wildness in his eyes. Think,
however, of my surprise, to feel him put both his hands round my two
shoulders, and then kiss my cheek!
"I wonder I did not really sink, so exquisite was my affright when I
saw him spread out his arms! Involuntarily, I concluded he meant to
crush me: but the Willises, who have never seen him till this fatal
illness, not knowing how very extraordinary an action this was from
him, simply smiled and looked pleased, supposing, perhaps, it was his
customary salutation!
"I believe, however, it was but the joy of a heart unbridled, now, by
the forms and proprieties of established custom and sober reason. To
see any of his household thus by accident, seemed such a near approach
to liberty and recovery, that who can wonder it should serve rather to
elate than lessen what yet remains of his disorder!
"He now spoke in such terms of his pleasure in seeing me, that I soon
lost the whole of my terror; astonishment to find him so nearly well,
and gratification to see him so pleased, removed every uneasy feeling,
and the joy that succeeded, in my conviction of his recovery, made me
ready to throw myself at his feet to express it.
"What a conversation followed! When he saw me fearless, he grew more
and more alive, and made me walk close by his side, away from the
attendants, and even the Willises themselves, who, to indulge him,
retreated. I own myself not completely composed, but alarm I could
entertain no more.
"Everything that came uppermost in his mind he mentioned; he seemed to
have just such remains of his flightiness as heated his imagination
without deranging his reason, and robbed him of all control over his
speech, though nearly in his perfect state of mind as to his opinions.
"What did he not say!—He opened his whole heart to me,—expounded all
his sentiments, and acquainted me with all his intentions.
"The heads of his discourse I must give you briefly, as I am sure you
will be highly curious to hear them, and as no accident can render of
much consequence what a man says in such a state of physical
intoxication.
"He assured me he was quite well—as well as he had ever been in his
life; and then inquired how I did, and how I went on? and whether I
was more comfortable?
"If these questions, in their implication, surprised me, imagine how
that surprise must increase when he proceeded to explain them! He
asked after the coadjutrix, laughing, and saying, 'Never mind her!—
don't be oppressed—I am your friend! don't let her cast you down!—I
know you have a hard time of it—but don't mind her!'
"Almost thunderstruck with astonishment, I merely curtseyed to his
kind 'I am your friend,' and said nothing.
"Then presently he added, 'Stick to your father—stick to your own
family—let them be your objects.'
"How readily I assented!
"Again he repeated all I have just written, nearly in the same words,
but ended it more seriously: he suddenly stopped, and held me to stop
too, and putting his hand on his breast, in the most solemn manner, he
gravely and slowly said, 'I will protect you!—I promise you that—and
therefore depend upon me!'
"I thanked him; and the Willises, thinking him rather too elevated,
came to propose my walking on. 'No, no, no!' he cried, a hundred times
in a breath; and their good humour prevailed, and they let him again
walk on with his new companion.
"He then gave me a history of his pages, animating almost into a rage,
as he related his subjects of displeasure with them, particularly with
Mr. Ernst,[100] who, he told me, had been brought up by himself. I
hope his ideas upon these men are the result of the mistakes of his
malady.
"Then he asked me some questions that very greatly distressed me,
relating to information given him in his illness, from various
motives, but which he suspected to be false, and which I knew he had
reason to suspect: yet was it most dangerous to set anything right, as
I was not aware what might be the views of their having been stated
wrong. I was as discreet as I knew how to be, and I hope I did no
mischief; but this was the worst part of the dialogue.
"He next talked to me a great deal of my dear father, and made a
thousand inquiries concerning his 'History of Music.' This brought him
to his favourite theme, Handel; and he told me innumerable anecdotes
of him, and particularly that celebrated tale of Handel's saying of
himself, 'While that boy lives, my music will never want a protector.'
And this, he said, I might relate to my father.
"Then he ran over most of his oratorios, attempting to sing the
subjects of several airs and choruses, but so dreadfully hoarse that
the sound was terrible.
"Dr. Willis, quite alarmed at this exertion, feared he would do
himself harm, and again proposed a separation. 'No, no, no!' he
exclaimed, 'not yet; I have something I must just mention first.'
"Dr. Willis, delighted to comply, even when uneasy at compliance,
again gave way.
"The good King then greatly affected me. He began upon my revered old
friend, Mrs. Delany; and he spoke of her with such warmth—such
kindness! 'She was my friend!' he cried, 'and I loved her as a friend!
I have made a memorandum when I lost her—I will show it you.'
"He pulled out a pocket-book, and rummaged some time, but to no
purpose.
"The tears stood in his eyes—he wiped them, and Dr. Willis again
became very anxious. 'Come, sir,' he cried, 'now do you come in and
let the lady go on her walk,—come, now, you have talked a long while,—
so we'll go in—if your Majesty pleases.'
"'No, no!' he cried, 'I want to ask her a few questions;—I have lived
so long out of the world, I know nothing!'
"This touched me to the heart. We walked on together, and he inquired
after various persons, particularly Mrs. Boscawen, because she was
Mrs. Delany's friend! Then, for the same reason, after Mr. Frederick
Montagu, of whom he kindly said, 'I know he has a great regard for me,
for all he joined the Opposition.' Lord Grey de Wilton, Sir Watkin
Wynn, the Duke of Beaufort, and various others, followed.
"He then told me he was very much dissatisfied with several of his
State officers, and meant to form an entire new establishment. He took
a paper out of his pocket-book, and showed me his new list.
"This was the wildest thing that passed; and Dr. John Willis now
seriously urged our separating; but he would not consent; he had only
three more words to say, he declared, and again he conquered.
"He now spoke of my father, with still more kindness, and told me he
ought to have had the post of Master of the Band, and not that little
poor musician Parsons, who was not fit for it: 'But Lord Salisbury,'
he cried, 'used your father very ill in that business, and so he did
me! However, I have dashed out his name, and I shall put your father's
in,—as soon as I get loose again!'
"This again—how affecting was this!
"'And what,' cried he, 'has your father got, at last? nothing but that
poor thing at Chelsea? O fie! fie! fie! But never mind! I will take
care of him! I will do it myself!'
"Then presently he added, 'As to Lord Salisbury, he is out already, as
this memorandum will show you, and so are many more. I shall be much
better served; and when once I get away, I shall rule with a rod of
iron!'
"This was very unlike himself, and startled the two good doctors, who
could not bear to cross him, and were exulting at my seeing his great
amendment, but yet grew quite uneasy at his earnestness and
volubility.
"Finding we now must part, he stopped to take leave, and renewed again
his charges about the coadjutrix. 'Never mind her!' he cried, 'depend
upon me! I will be your friend as long as I live!—I here pledge myself
to be your friend!' And then he saluted me again just as at the
meeting, and suffered me to go on.
"What a scene! how variously was I affected by it! but, upon the
whole, how inexpressibly thankful to see him so nearly himself—so
little removed from recovery!
"I went very soon after to the Queen, to whom I was most eager to avow
the meeting, and how little I could help it. Her astonishment, and her
earnestness to hear every particular, were very great. I told her
almost all. Some few things relating to the distressing questions I
could not repeat; nor many things said of Mrs. Schwellenberg, which
would much, and very needlessly, have hurt her."
About February 6, a further improvement in the King's state took place,
which proved to be decisive. From this time, not only were his equerries
allowed to attend him again in the evening, but the Queen was once more
admitted to his chamber. Singularly enough, the progress of his recovery
coincided exactly with the progress of the Regency Bill. The latter was
brought into the House of Commons on the 5th, and on the following day a
printed copy was shown to Fanny. "I shuddered," she writes, "to hear it
named." On the 10th she reports: "The amendment of the King is
progressive, and without any reasonable fear, though not without some
few drawbacks. The Willis family were surely sent by Heaven to restore
peace, and health, and prosperity to this miserable house!" On the 12th
the Regency Bill passed the Commons, and was carried up to the House of
Lords; it was there subsequently read a second time, went through
Committee, and was ordered for a third reading. But that stage was not
to arrive. Miss Burney writes on the 13th: "Oh, how dreadful will be the
day when that unhappy Bill takes place! I cannot approve the plan of it;
the King is too well to make such a step right. It will break his
spirits, if not his heart, when he hears and understands such a
deposition.
"SATURDAY, 14TH.—The King is infinitely better. Oh that there were
patience in the land, and this Regency Bill postponed!"
Macaulay, quoting part of the entry for the 13th, leaves it to be
inferred that the writer disapproved of 'Pitt's own Bill' under any
circumstances; he carefully omits the words which show that her
objection was to the plan being proceeded with when the King's recovery
was so far advanced as to render it inapplicable. The Ministry speedily
made it plain that they were of the same mind as Miss Burney. On the
17th, the Peers, on the motion of the Lord Chancellor, adjourned the
further consideration of the Regency Bill; and a week later the measure
was finally abandoned.
"What a different house," says the Diary of the 19th, "is this house
become!—sadness and terror, that wholly occupied it so lately, are now
flown away, or rather are now driven out; and though anxiety still
forcibly prevails, 'tis in so small a proportion to joy and
thankfulness, that it is borne as if scarce an ill!" Before the month
ended, Miss Burney had an assurance of the King's entire restoration
from his own mouth. "The King I have seen again—in the Queen's
dressing-room. On opening the door, there he stood! He smiled at my
start; and, saying he had waited on purpose to see me, added, 'I am
quite well now—I was nearly so when I saw you before; but I could
overtake you better now.'"
All England had been intent on the little palace at Kew, where distress
was now turned into rejoicing. To none of his subjects was the recovery
of the royal patient a matter of indifference. To a limited party it was
a source of bitter disappointment and chagrin. To the immense majority
it brought unbounded satisfaction. It was the engrossing topic of the
day. 'Nobody,' said an observer, 'talks, writes, thinks, or dreams of
anything else.' On the 1st of March thanksgivings for the happy event
were offered in all the churches of the capital. On the 10th the
physicians took their departure from Kew. On the same day Parliament was
opened by Commission under the sign manual. At sunset began a spectacle
worthy of the occasion. 'London,' wrote Wraxall, 'displayed a blaze of
light from one extremity to the other; the illuminations extending,
without any metaphor, from Hampstead and Highgate to Clapham, and even
as far as Tooting; whilst the vast distance between Greenwich and
Kensington presented the same dazzling appearance. The poorest mechanics
contributed their proportion, and instances were exhibited of cobblers'
stalls decorated with one or two farthing candles.[101]
The Queen carried all the Princesses, except the youngest, up to town,
to feast their eyes on streets as brilliant and crowded as Vauxhall on a
gala night. It may cool our historic fervour to remember that the blaze
of light which astonished our ancestors was produced by nothing more
luminous than oil-lamps, and that the crowds of 1789 would pass for a
sorry muster in the huge Babylon of to-day; but, after all, the scene
exhibited in London, when even the cobblers' stalls were illuminated,
was not without its significance on the eve of the meeting of the States
General at Versailles. Cowper, usurping the functions of Thomas Warton,
then poet-laureate, sang of Queen Charlotte's private expedition:
'Glad she came that night to prove,
A witness undescried,
How much the object of HER love
Was loved by ALL beside.'
Miss Burney describes how the festive evening was spent at Kew. The
Queen, at her own expense, had arranged for an illumination of the
palace and courtyard as a surprise to her consort. Biagio Rebecca, by
her order, had painted a grand transparency, displaying representations
of "the King, Providence, Health, and Britannia, with elegant devices.
When this was lighted and prepared, the Princess Amelia went to lead her
papa to the front window; but first she dropped on her knees, and
presented him a paper," containing some congratulatory verses which, at
the Queen's desire, the narrator "had scribbled in her name for the
happy occasion," and which concluded with a postscript:
'The little bearer begs a kiss
From dear papa for bringing this.'
"I need not, I think, tell you," continues Fanny, "that the little
bearer begged not in vain. The King was extremely pleased. He came into
a room belonging to the Princesses, in which we had a party to look at
the illuminations, and there he stayed above an hour: cheerful,
composed, and gracious; all that could merit the great national
testimony to his worth this day paid him." When at one o'clock in the
morning the Queen returned to Kew, she found the King standing
bare-headed at the porch, ready to hand her from the coach, and eager to
assure himself of her safety. So far from being dissatisfied with
anything that she had done during his illness, his affection for her was
confirmed by the zeal with which she had watched over his interests.
On the 14th of March the Court left Kew for Windsor. "All Windsor," says
the Diary, "came out to meet the King. It was a joy amounting to
ecstasy. I could not keep my eyes dry all day long. A scene so reversed!
Sadness so sweetly exchanged for thankfulness and delight!" But the
period of excitement was now over. The old routine of duty recommenced,
with few incidents to relieve its monotony: there was an entertainment
or two for the suite in the royal borough to celebrate the restoration;
then one by one the friends and acquaintances who were assembled round
the household in the early days of March dispersed to their homes; no
society remained at the Upper Lodge but Cerbera and the
gentlemen-in-waiting—who did _not_ include Colonel Digby; hardly any
change marked the succession of days, save an occasional visit to Kew,
and now and then a journey to town for a drawing-room. In the Public
Thanksgiving, held at St. Paul's on the 23rd of April, Fanny appears to
have had no part, though she received as mementoes of the occasion a
medal of green and gold, and a fan ornamented with the words: _Health
restored to one, and happiness to millions_. Once, when in London, she
had a visit from Miss Gunning, who called to inquire after the Queen's
health, and who 'looked serious, sensible, interesting,' though she said
but little, and in that little managed to introduce the name of Mr.
Digby. Degree by degree, Fanny's spirits sank to the point of actual
despondency, till she writes, 'A lassitude of existence creeps sensibly
upon me.' A fit of illness did not assist to restore her cheerfulness.
Thus ended March, and thus passed April, May, and the greater part of
June. The King had raised some alarm by declaring his intention of going
to Germany in the summer, but, to the satisfaction of the suite in
general, and of one of the Queen's Robe-Keepers in particular, when the
time came, the physicians advised a stay at an English watering-place in
preference.
-----
Footnote 96:
Dr. Willis was now assisted by a younger son, named Thomas, who, like
himself, was in holy orders, as well as by his eldest son John.
Footnote 97:
'Cornwallis Papers,' vol. i., p. 406.
Footnote 98:
'Buckingham Papers,' vol. ii., p. 104; 'Auckland Correspondence,' vol.
ii., pp. 251, 289.
Footnote 99:
Diary, vol. iii., p. 163.
Footnote 100:
Many stories have been told of the deranged King having been
brutally treated by this man Ernst, who is said on one occasion to
have thrown the patient violently down, exclaiming to the
attendants, 'There is your King for you!' But Ernst, who was a Page
of the Back Stairs, received a pension on his retirement. It seems
probable, therefore, that Ernst's supposed brutality was, as Miss
Burney suggests, an illusion of the King's malady.
Footnote 101:
Wraxall's Posthumous Memoirs, vol. iii., pp. 369, 370.
-----
CHAPTER X.
Royal Visit to Weymouth—Lyndhurst—Village Loyalty—Arrival at Weymouth—
Bathing to Music—Mrs. Gwynn—Mrs. Siddons—The Royal Party at the Rooms—
First Sight of Mr. Pitt—The Marquis of Salisbury—Royal Tour—Visit to
Longleat—Mrs. Delany—Bishop Ken—Tottenham Park—Return to Windsor—
Progress of the French Revolution—Colonel Digby's Marriage—Miss
Burney's Situation—A Senator—Tax on Bachelors—Reading to the Queen—
Miss Burney's Melancholy—Proposal for her Retirement—Her Tedious
Solitude—Her Literary Inactivity—Her Declining Health—A Friendly
Cabal—Windham and the Literary Club—James Boswell—Miss Burney's
Memorial to the Queen—Leave of Absence Proposed—The Queen and Mrs.
Schwellenberg—Serious Illness of Miss Burney—Discussions on her
Retirement—A Day at the Hastings Trial—The Defence—A Lively Scene—The
Duke of Clarence—Parting with the Royal Family—Miss Burney receives a
Pension—Her Final Retirement.
On the 25th of June the Court set out on a progress from Windsor to
Weymouth. Miss Burney and Miss Planta, as was usual on these occasions,
were of the suite; the Schwellenberg, as usual, remained behind. 'The
crowds increased as we advanced, and at Winchester the town was _one
head_.' At Romsey, on the steps of the Town Hall, a band of musicians,
some in coarse brown coats and red neckcloths, some even in
smock-frocks, made a chorus of 'God save the King,' in which a throng of
spectators joined with shouts that rent the air. 'Carriages of all sorts
lined the roadside—chariots, chaises, landaus, carts, waggons, whiskies,
gigs, phaetons—mixed and intermixed, filled within and surrounded
without by faces all glee and delight.' On the verge of the New Forest
the King was met by a party of foresters, habited in green, with bows
and bugles, who, according to ancient custom, presented him with a pair
of milk-white greyhounds, wearing silver collars, and led by silken
cords.
Arrived at Lyndhurst, he drove to the old hunting-seat of Charles II.,
then tenanted by the Duke of Gloucester. "It is a straggling,
inconvenient old house," writes Fanny, "but delightfully situated in a
village—looking, indeed, at present, like a populous town, from the
amazing concourse of people that have crowded into it.... During the
King's dinner, which was in a parlour looking into the garden, he
permitted the people to come to the window; and their delight and
rapture in seeing their monarch at table, with the evident hungry
feeling it occasioned, made a contrast of admiration and deprivation
truly comic. They crowded, however, so excessively, that this can be
permitted no more. They broke down all the paling, and much of the
hedges, and some of the windows, and all by eagerness and multitude, for
they were perfectly civil and well-behaved.... We continued at Lyndhurst
five days.... On the Sunday we all went to the parish church; and after
the service, instead of a psalm, imagine our surprise to hear the whole
congregation join in 'God save the King!' Misplaced as this was in a
church, its intent was so kind, loyal, and affectionate, that I believe
there was not a dry eye amongst either singers or hearers."
On the 30th of June the royal party quitted Lyndhurst, and arrived at
Weymouth in the course of the evening. 'The journey was one scene of
festivity and rejoicing.' The change of air, the bustle of travelling,
the beauty of the summer landscapes, the loyalty of the population, had
restored Fanny's tone, and brought back the glow she had experienced at
the time of the King's convalescence. Her enthusiasm lent a touch of
enchantment to everything she saw. Salisbury and Blandford welcomed
their sovereign with displays and acclamations that fairly carried her
away. At Dorchester the windows and roofs of the quaint old houses
seemed packed with eager faces. 'Girls, with chaplets, beautiful young
creatures, strewed the entrance of various villages with flowers.'
Nor were the good people of Weymouth and Melcomb Regis a whit behind in
loyalty, though greatly at a loss how to vary the expression of their
feelings. "Not a child could we meet that had not a bandeau round its
head, cap or hat, of 'God save the King'; all the bargemen wore it in
cockades; and even the bathing-women had it in large coarse girdles
round their waists. It is printed in golden letters upon most of the
bathing-machines, and in various scrolls and devices it adorns every
shop, and almost every house, in the two towns.... Nor is this all.
Think but of the surprise of his Majesty when, the first time of his
bathing, he had no sooner popped his royal head under water than a band
of music, concealed in a neighbouring machine, struck up, 'God save
great George our King'! One thing, however, was a little unlucky:—When
the mayor and burgesses came with the address, they requested leave to
kiss hands. This was graciously accorded; but the mayor advancing in a
common way, to take the Queen's hand, as he might that of any lady
mayoress, Colonel Gwynn, who stood by, whispered:
"'You must kneel, sir.'
"He found, however, that he took no notice of this hint, but kissed the
Queen's hand erect. As he passed him, in his way back, the Colonel said:
"'You should have knelt, sir!'
"'Sir,' answered the poor Mayor, 'I cannot.'
"'Everybody does, sir.'
"'Sir,—I have a wooden leg!'
"But the absurdity of the matter followed—all the rest did the same;
taking the same privilege, by the example, without the same or any
cause!"
Miss Burney's way of life at Weymouth seems to have been much the same
as if she had belonged to a private party. "I have here a very good
parlour, but dull from its aspect. Nothing but the sea at Weymouth
affords any life or spirit. My bedroom is in the attics. Nothing like
living at a Court for exaltation. Yet even with this gratification,
which extends to Miss Planta, the house will only hold the females of
the party.... It is my intention to cast away all superfluous complaints
into the main ocean, which I think quite sufficiently capacious to hold
them; and really my little frame will find enough to carry and manage
without them.... His Majesty is in delightful health, and much improved
in spirits. All agree he never looked better.... The Queen is reading
Mrs. Piozzi's 'Tour' to me, instead of my reading it to her. She loves
reading aloud, and in this work finds me an able commentator. How like
herself, how characteristic is every line!—Wild, entertaining, flighty,
inconsistent, and clever!" As at Cheltenham, much of the stiffness of
Windsor etiquette was thrown aside. The King and his family spent most
of their time in walking or riding, and the Queen required but little
attendance. Now and again the royal party varied the usual amusements of
a watering-place by a visit to the _Magnificent_ line-of-battle ship,
stationed at the entrance of the bay, by a cruise in the _Southampton_
frigate, which lay further in, or by an excursion to Dorchester,
Lulworth Castle, or Sherborne Castle. During these intervals, the
Robe-Keeper was left to her own occupations. She passed much of her
leisure with the wife of the equerry, Mrs. Gwynn, Goldsmith's 'Jessamy
Bride,' who had many stories to tell of her old admirer,[102] and could
exchange anecdotes with Fanny of Johnson, Baretti, the Thrales, Sir
Joshua and his nieces. Strolling with this acquaintance one morning on
the sands, Miss Burney "overtook a lady of very majestic port and
demeanour, who solemnly returned Mrs. Gwynn's salutation, and then
addressed herself to me with similar gravity. I saw a face I knew, and
of very uncommon beauty, but did not immediately recollect it was Mrs.
Siddons. Her husband was with her, and a sweet child. I wished to have
tried if her solemnity would have worn away by length of conversation:
but I was obliged to hasten home."
The great actress, as she told Fanny, had come to Weymouth solely for
her health; but she could not resist the royal command to appear at the
little theatre, where Mrs. Wells and Quick were already performing. "The
King," says the Diary, "has taken the centre front box for himself, and
family, and attendants. The side boxes are too small. The Queen ordered
places for Miss Planta and me, which are in the front row of a box next
but one to the royals. Thus, in this case, our want of rank to be in
their public suite gives us better seats than those _high_ enough to
stand behind them!
"JULY 29TH.—We went to the play, and saw Mrs. Siddons in Rosalind. She
looked beautifully, but too large for that shepherd's dress; and her
gaiety sits not naturally upon her—it seems more like disguised gravity.
I must own my admiration for her confined to her tragic powers; and
there it is raised so high that I feel mortified, in a degree, to see
her so much fainter attempts and success in comedy."
A few days later we read that Mrs. Siddons, as Lady Townly, in her looks
and the tragic part was exquisite; and again: "Mrs. Siddons performed
Mrs. Oakley. What pity thus to throw away her talents! But the Queen
dislikes tragedy; and the honour to play before the Royal Family binds
her to the little credit acquired by playing comedy.
"SUNDAY, AUGUST 9TH.—The King had a council yesterday, which brought
most of the great officers of State to Weymouth. This evening her
Majesty desired Miss Planta and me to go to the rooms, whither they
commonly go themselves on Sunday evenings; and after looking round them,
and speaking where they choose, they retire to tea in an inner apartment
with their own party, but leave the door open, both to see and be seen.
The rooms are convenient and spacious: we found them very full. As soon
as the royal party came, a circle was formed, and they moved round it,
just as before the ball at St. James's, the King one way, with his
Chamberlain, the new-made Marquis of Salisbury,[103] and the Queen the
other, with the Princesses, Lady Courtown, etc. The rest of the
attendants planted themselves round in the circle. I had now the
pleasure, for the first time, to see Mr. Pitt; but his appearance is his
least recommendation; it is neither noble nor expressive."
Three days later occurs a significant entry:
"WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 12TH.—This is the Prince of Wales's birthday; but it
has not been kept."
On the 13th the royal party left Weymouth for Exeter, where they arrived
to a late dinner. Two days afterwards they proceeded through a fertile
and varied country to Saltram, the seat of Earl Morley, a minor. All
along the route, the enthusiasm of loyalty which had accompanied the
King from Windsor continued undiminished. Arches of flowers were erected
at every town, with such devices as rustic ingenuity could imagine, to
express the welcome of the inhabitants. Everywhere there were crowds,
cheers, singing, peals of bells, rejoicings, garlands, and decorations.
The view from Saltram commanded Plymouth Sound, Mount Edgecombe, and a
wide stretch of the fine adjacent country. Visits were made from this
noble house to the great naval port, to the beauties of the famous
Mount, to the woods and steeps of Maristow, and the antique curiosities
of Cothele on the banks of the Tamar. On the 27th the Court quitted
Saltram for Weymouth, and in the middle of September finally departed
from Weymouth on its return to Windsor. Two nights and the intervening
day were spent at Longleat, the seat of the Marquis of Bath. "Longleat,"
writes Miss Burney, "was formerly the dwelling of Lord Lansdowne, uncle
to Mrs. Delany; and here, at this seat, that heartless uncle, to promote
some political views, sacrificed his incomparable niece, at the age of
seventeen, marrying her to an unwieldy, uncultivated country esquire,
near sixty years of age, and scarce ever sober—his name Pendarves. With
how sad an awe, in recollecting her submissive unhappiness, did I enter
these doors!—and with what indignant hatred did I look at the portrait
of the unfeeling Earl, to whom her gentle repugnance, shown by almost
incessant tears, was thrown away, as if she, her person, and her
existence, were nothing in the scale, where the disposition of a few
boroughs opposed them! Yet was this the famous Granville—the poet, the
fine gentleman, the statesman, the friend and patron of Pope, of whom he
wrote:
'What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing?'
_Mine_, I am sure, for one."
The house, at the time of this visit, though magnificent, and of an
immense magnitude, was very much out of repair, and by no means cheerful
or comfortable. Gloomy grandeur, Fanny thought, was the character of the
building and its fitting-up. "My bedroom," she says, "was furnished with
crimson velvet, bed included, yet so high, though only the second story,
that it made me giddy to look into the park, and tired to wind up the
flight of stairs. It was formerly the favourite room, the housekeeper
told me, of Bishop Ken, who put on his shroud in it before he died. Had
I fancied I had seen his ghost, I might have screamed my voice away,
unheard by any assistant to lay it; for so far was I from the rest of
the mansion, that not the lungs of Mr. Bruce could have availed me." The
last place at which the King stopped on his homeward journey was
Tottenham Park, the seat of the Earl of Ailesbury. Here occurred an
instance of the enormous expense to which the great nobles sometimes
went in entertaining their sovereign. 'The good lord of the mansion put
up a new bed for the King and Queen that cost him £900.'
On September 18 the Court arrived at Windsor. 'Deadly dead sank my
heart' is our traveller's record of her sensation on re-entering the
detested dining-room. Nothing happened during the remainder of the year
to raise her spirits. In October, the days began to remind her of the
terrible miseries of the preceding autumn. She found 'a sort of
recollective melancholy always ready to mix' with her thankfulness for
the King's continued good health. And about the same time disquieting
news came from over the water of the march to Versailles, the return to
Paris, and the shouts of the hungry and furious _poissardes_ proclaiming
the arrival of 'the baker, his wife, and the little apprentice.' Events
of this kind could not but excite uneasiness at any Court, however
popular for the time. These shadows were presently succeeded by another,
equally undefined, but of a more personal character. In the middle of
November, Fanny was told by Miss Planta, in confidence, that Mr. Digby
had written to acquaint his royal patrons with his approaching marriage.
'I believed not a syllable of the matter,' says the Diary; 'but I would
not tell her that.' Only a few days later, however, the same kind friend
informed Miss Burney that 'it was all declared, and that the Princesses
had wished Miss Gunning joy at the Drawing-Room.' 'Now first,' says
Fanny, 'my belief followed assertion;—but it was only because it was
inevitable, since the Princesses could not have proceeded so far without
certainty.' The wedding took place early in January; and from this time
the bridegroom appeared no more at Court, which became to one of the
attendants an abode of unrelieved gloom.
Some of her friends were frank enough in their comments on her
situation. There was something, no doubt, in Miss Burney's aspect which
drew such remarks as these from the wife of an Irish bishop: "Well; the
Queen, to be sure, is a great deal better dressed than she used to be;
but for all that, I really think it is but an odd thing for you!—Dear, I
think it's something so out of the way for you!—I can't think how you
set about it. It must have been very droll to you at first. A great deal
of honour, to be sure, to serve a Queen, and all that; but, I dare say a
lady's-maid could do it better.... It must be a mighty hurry-scurry
life! You don't look at all fit for it, to judge by appearances, for all
its great honour, and all that." Colonel Digby had previously accused
her of being _absent_ in her official occupation, and she had owned that
she had at first found attention _unattainable_. "She had even," she
added, "and not seldom, handed the Queen her fan before her gown, and
her gloves before her cap!" The Vice-Chamberlain thought this very
likely, and observed that such matters did not seem trifles to her
Majesty.
The Diary for the earlier months of 1790 contains little more than what
the writer calls 'loose scraps of anecdotes,' of which we can find room
for only one or two specimens. Here is an account of a conversation with
Colonel Manners, who, besides being an equerry, was also a Member of
Parliament:
"I had been informed he had once made an attempt to speak, during the
Regency business, last winter; I begged to know how the matter stood,
and he made a most frank display of its whole circumstances.
"'Why, they were speaking away,' he cried, 'upon the Regency, and so—
and they were saying the King could not reign, and recover; and Burke
was making some of his eloquence, and talking; and, says he, 'hurled
from his throne'—and so I put out my finger in this manner, as if I
was in a great passion, for I felt myself very red, and I was in a
monstrous passion I suppose, but I was only going to say 'Hear! Hear!'
but I happened to lean one hand down upon my knee, in this way, just
as Mr. Pitt does when he wants to speak; and I stooped forward, just
as if I was going to rise up and begin; but just then I caught Mr.
Pitt's eye, looking at me so pitifully; he thought I was going to
speak, and he was frightened to death, for he thought—for the thing
was, he got up himself, and he said over all I wanted to say; and the
thing is, he almost always does; for just as I have something
particular to say, Mr. Pitt begins, and goes through it all, so that
he don't leave anything more to be said about it; and so I suppose, as
he looked at me so pitifully, he thought I should say it first, or
else that I should get into some scrape, because I was so warm and
looking so red.'
"Any comment would disgrace this; I will therefore only tell you his
opinion, in his own words, of one of our late taxes.[104]
"'There's only one tax, ma'am, that ever I voted for against my
conscience, for I've always been very particular about that; but that
is the _bacheldor's_ tax, and that I hold to be very unconstitutional,
and I am very sorry I voted for it, because it's very unfair; for how
can a man help being a _bacheldor_, if nobody will have him? and,
besides, it's not any fault to be taxed for, because we did not make
ourselves _bacheldors_, for we were made so by God, for nobody was
born married, and so I think it's a very unconstitutional tax.'"
Miss Burney's desultory journals for this year contain few notices of
her life at Court. We hear, indeed, in the spring, of her being summoned
to a new employment, and called upon four or five times to read a play
before the Queen and Princesses. But this proved a very occasional break
in the routine of drudgery which she could no longer support with
cheerfulness. Henceforth she seems to avoid all mention of other
engagements and incidents at Windsor or Kew as matters too wearisome to
think of or write about. We have, instead, accounts of days spent at the
Hastings trial, where, as before, she spent much time in conversing with
Windham. The charges were now being investigated in detail, and it was
often difficult to make up an interesting report for her mistress.
Sometimes, however, when evidence weighed the proceedings down, Burke
would speak from time to time, and lift them up; or Windham himself,
much to Fanny's satisfaction, would take part in the arguments. But
Westminster Hall was attractive mainly by contrast to the palace; in the
Great Chamberlain's Box there was no danger of receiving a summons to
the Queen, no fear of being late for an attendance in the royal
dressing-room. During the recess, when there was no trial to attend,
Miss Burney's thoughts were a good deal occupied by the illness and
death of a faithful man-servant, and with the subsequent disposal of his
savings, which caused her some trouble.
Once, at the end of May, she had an opportunity of unburdening her mind
to her father. They met in Westminster Abbey at one of the many
commemorations of Handel which occurred about this time; and, neither of
them caring very much for the great master's music, they spent three
hours chiefly in conversation. For four years they had not been so long
alone together. Dr. Burney happened to mention that some of the French
exiles wished him to make them acquainted with the author of 'Cecilia,'
and repeated the astonished speech of the Comtesse de Boufflers on
learning that this was out of his power: 'Mais, monsieur, est-ce
possible! Mademoiselle votre fille n'a-t-elle point de vacances?' Such
an opening was just what Fanny wanted, and she availed herself of it to
pour out her whole heart. With many expressions of gratitude for the
Queen's goodness, she owned that her way of life was distasteful to her;
she was lost to all private comfort, dead to all domestic endearment,
worn with want of rest and laborious attendance. Separated from her
relations, her friends, and the society she loved, she brooded over the
past with hopeless regret, and lived like one who had no natural
connections. "Melancholy was the existence, where happiness was
excluded, though not a complaint could be made! where the illustrious
personages who were served possessed almost all human excellence—yet
where those who were their servants, though treated with the most
benevolent condescension, could never in any part of the live-long day,
command liberty, or social intercourse, or repose!" "The silence of my
dearest father," she adds, "now silencing myself, I turned to look at
him; but how was I struck to see his honoured head bowed down almost
into his bosom with dejection and discomfort! We were both perfectly
still a few moments; but when he raised his head I could hardly keep my
seat to see his eyes filled with tears! 'I have long,' he cried, 'been
uneasy, though I have not spoken; ... but ... if you wish to resign—my
house, my purse, my arms, shall be open to receive you back!'"
It cannot fairly be said that, during the preceding four years, Miss
Burney had been debarred from literary work. The conditions of her lot
were hard, and it may have been one of them that she should publish
nothing while in the Queen's service; but she certainly had enjoyed
considerable leisure for composition. Witness the full and
carefully-written journal which she had kept during the greater part of
her tenure of office. Perhaps the frequent interruptions to which she
was liable hindered her from concentrating her thoughts on the
production of a regular narrative. Indefatigable as she was with her
pen, we can see that she was far less strenuous when much intellectual
exertion was required. When she was offered her post, her Muse was at a
standstill, as she told the King; and since she entered the household,
she had written nothing capable of being printed, except two or three
small copies of verses not worth printing, and the rough draft of a
tragedy. She had begun this tragedy during the King's illness, in order
to distract her attention; and after laying it aside for sixteen months,
she resumed her task in the spring of 1790, and completed the play in
August. Well or ill done, she was pleased, she told her sisters, to have
done something 'at last—she who had so long lived in all ways as
nothing.' In the early part of this year the newspapers announced, as
they had done several times before, that the distinguished novelist, who
had so long been silent, had at length finished a new tale ready for the
press. As often as this rumour appeared, a flutter of apprehension ran
through the ante-rooms of the Upper and Lower Lodges. Fanny's genius for
seizing the points of a character, and presenting them in a ludicrous
light, could not fail to be recognised wherever she went. Years before,
the fiery Baretti had warned her that if she dared to put him in a book,
she should feel the effects of an Italian's vengeance.[105] Joseph
Baretti, who had stilettoed his man, and who lived to libel Mrs. Piozzi,
was the very person to fulfil a promise of this kind. But for his
threat, his tempting eccentricities might have exposed him to
considerable peril. But the carpet-knights and waiting-women of Windsor
stood in no immediate danger. 'There is a new book coming out, and we
shall all be in it!' exclaimed the conscience-stricken Mr. Turbulent.
The colonels frowned, bit their lips, and tried not to look
uncomfortable. 'Well, anybody's welcome to me and my character!' cried
poor Miss Planta, whom Fanny used to patronize. 'Never mind! she's very
humane!' observed one of the Willises, well aware that, whoever else
might suffer, he and his family were exempt from ridicule. Miss Burney
smiled demurely at the tributes paid to her power. Full well she knew
that, so far as the characters of her colleagues were worth preserving,
she had them all safe, under lock and key, in her Diary. But not a line
of the dreaded novel had been written. The passion, which possessed her
in her early days, for planning a story, and contriving situations for
the actors in it, had faded away as the freshness of youth departed.
The months rolled on, and her spirits did not improve, while her health
steadily declined. Some of her female friends—Mrs. Gwynn, Miss
Cambridge, Mrs. Ord—saw her at Windsor or Kew after the close of the
London season, and were painfully impressed with the alteration which
they noted in her. The reports which these ladies carried up to town
were speedily known throughout her father's circle of acquaintances. The
discontent that had been felt at her seclusion increased tenfold when it
was suspected that there was danger of the prisoner's constitution
giving way. A sort of cabal was formed to bring influence to bear upon
Dr. Burney. The lead in this seems to have been taken by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, who, despite his failing eyesight and his Academic troubles,
was zealous as ever in the cause of his old favourite. Dr. Burney had
yielded to Fanny's wish of retiring; but he was not in affluent
circumstances, he had expected great things from the Court appointment,
his daughter had not much worldly wisdom, and in dread of the censure
that awaited him<|fim_middle|> literary adviser on whose judgment she could rely. Her acquaintance
with Arthur Murphy seems to have ceased; the Hastings trial, and the
debates on the Regency, had cooled her relations with Sheridan and
Burke. 'Mr. Sheridan,' she wrote, 'I have no longer any ambition to be
noticed by.' Her regard for Burke continued; but she had not yet met him
since her deliverance from captivity. Dr. Burney was told only that she
was engaged upon a play, and was made to understand that he must wait
until it was finished before he was indulged with a sight of the
manuscript. Towards the end of 1791 she writes: 'I go on with various
writings, at different times, and just as the humour strikes. I have
promised my dear father a Christmas-box and a New Year's gift; and
therefore he now kindly leaves me to my own devices.' We do not find
that the anxious parent received either of the promised presents. The
daughter's fit of application seems to have soon died away: in the early
part of 1792, her father was ill and occupied with his ailments; and by
the time he was able to think of other things, Fanny had ceased to
prepare for coming before the public. Her tragedies slept in her desk
for three years: when, at the end of that period, the earliest of them,
which had been begun at Kew and finished at Windsor, was put on the
stage, it was produced without revision, and failed—as, no doubt, it
would have done under any circumstances.
As Miss Burney's strength returned, she seems to have fallen back into
the indolent life of visiting and party-going which she was leading when
she joined the Royal Household. She saw once more the failing Sir
Joshua, who had worked at her deliverance as if she had been his own
daughter; though he passed from the scene before she found an
opportunity of thanking him for his exertions. She attended a great
public breakfast given by Mrs. Montagu, whose famous Feather Room and
dining-room were thronged by hundreds of guests, and looked like a full
Ranelagh by daylight. At this entertainment she met Mrs. Hastings, whose
splendid dress, loaded with ornaments, gave her the appearance of an
Indian princess. At another breakfast Fanny encountered Boswell, who had
excited her displeasure by his revelation of Johnson's infirmities, and
who provoked her again by telling anecdotes of the great Samuel, and
acting them with open buffoonery. During the Session, she spent much of
her time at the Hastings trial, listening to the defence conducted by
Law, Dallas, and Plomer, and rallying Windham on the sarcasms aimed by
Law at the heated rhetoric of Burke. The great orator himself she rarely
encountered on these occasions. In June, 1792, however, she spent a day
with him at Mrs. Crewe's house on Hampstead Hill.
"The villa at Hampstead is small, but commodious. We were received by
Mrs. Crewe with much kindness. The room was rather dark, and she had a
veil to her bonnet, half down, and with this aid she looked still in a
full blaze of beauty.... She is certainly, in my eyes, the most
completely a beauty of any woman I ever saw. I know not, even now, any
female in her first youth who could bear the comparison. She uglifies
everything near her. Her son was with her. He is just of age, and
looks like her elder brother! he is a heavy, old-looking young man. He
is going to China with Lord Macartney.[108]
"My former friend, young Burke, was also there. I was glad to renew
acquaintance with him; though I could see some little strangeness in
him: this, however, completely wore off before the day was over. Soon
after entered Mrs. Burke, Miss French, a niece, and Mr. Richard Burke,
the comic, humorous, bold, queer brother of _the_ Mr. Burke.... Mrs.
Burke was just what I have always seen her, soft, gentle, reasonable,
and obliging; and we met, I think, upon as good terms as if so many
years had not parted us.
"At length Mr. Burke appeared, accompanied by Mr. Elliot. He shook
hands with my father as soon as he had paid his devoirs to Mrs. Crewe,
but he returned my curtsey with so distant a bow, that I concluded
myself quite lost with him, from my evident solicitude in poor Mr.
Hastings's cause. I could not wish that less obvious, thinking as I
think of it; but I felt infinitely grieved to lose the favour of a man
whom, in all other articles, I so much venerate, and whom, indeed, I
esteem and admire as the very first man of true genius now living in
this country.
"Mrs. Crewe introduced me to Mr. Elliot: I am sure we were already
personally known to each other, for I have seen him perpetually in the
Managers' Box, whence, as often, he must have seen me in the Great
Chamberlain's. He is a tall, thin young man, plain in face, dress, and
manner, but sensible, and possibly much besides; he was reserved,
however, and little else appeared.
"The moment I was named, to my great joy I found Mr. Burke had not
recollected me. He is more near-sighted considerably than myself.
'Miss Burney!' he now exclaimed, coming forward, and quite kindly
taking my hand, 'I did not see you;' and then he spoke very sweet
words of the meeting, and of my looking far better than 'while I was a
courtier,' and of how he rejoiced to see that I so little suited that
station. 'You look,' cried he, 'quite renewed, revived, disengaged;
you seemed, when I conversed with you last at the trial, quite
altered; I never saw such a change for the better as quitting a Court
has brought about!'
"Ah! thought I, this is simply a mistake from reasoning according to
your own feelings. I only seemed altered for the worse at the trial,
because I there looked coldly and distantly, from distaste and
disaffection to your proceedings; and I here look changed for the
better, only because I here meet you without the chill of
disapprobation, and with the glow of my first admiration of you and
your talents!
"Mrs. Crewe gave him her place, and he sat by me, and entered into a
most animated conversation upon Lord Macartney and his Chinese
expedition, and the two Chinese youths who were to accompany it. These
last he described minutely, and spoke of the extent of the undertaking
in high, and perhaps fanciful, terms, but with allusions and anecdotes
intermixed, so full of general information and brilliant ideas, that I
soon felt the whole of my first enthusiasm return, and with it a
sensation of pleasure that made the day delicious to me.
"After this my father joined us, and politics took the lead. He spoke
then with an eagerness and a vehemence that instantly banished the
graces, though it redoubled the energies, of his discourse. 'The
French Revolution,' he said, 'which began by authorizing and
legalizing injustice, and which by rapid steps had proceeded to every
species of despotism except owning a despot, was now menacing all the
universe and all mankind with the most violent concussion of principle
and order.' My father heartily joined, and I tacitly assented to his
doctrines, though I feared not with his fears.
"One speech I must repeat, for it is explanatory of his conduct, and
nobly explanatory. When he had expatiated upon the present dangers,
even to English liberty and property, from the contagion of havoc and
novelty, he earnestly exclaimed, 'This it is that has made ME an
abettor and supporter of Kings! Kings are necessary, and, if we would
preserve peace and prosperity, we must preserve THEM. We must all put
our shoulders to the work! Ay, and stoutly, too!'...
"At dinner Mr. Burke sat next Mrs. Crewe, and I had the happiness to
be seated next Mr. Burke; and my other neighbour was his amiable son.
"The dinner, and the dessert when the servants were removed, were
delightful. How I wish my dear Susanna and Fredy[109] could meet this
wonderful man when he is easy, happy, and with people he cordially
likes! But politics, even on his own side, must always be excluded;
his irritability is so terrible on that theme that it gives
immediately to his face the expression of a man who is going to defend
himself from murderers....
"Charles Fox being mentioned, Mrs. Crewe told us that he had lately
said, upon being shown some passage in Mr. Burke's book which he had
warmly opposed, but which had, in the event, made its own
justification, very candidly, 'Well! Burke is right—but Burke is often
right, only he is right too soon.'
"'Had Fox seen some things in that book,' answered Mr. Burke, 'as
soon, he would at this moment, in all probability, be first minister
of this country.'
"'What!' cried Mrs. Crewe, 'with Pitt?—No!—no!—Pitt won't go out, and
Charles Fox will never make a coalition with Pitt.'
"'And why not?' said Mr. Burke dryly! 'why not this coalition as well
as other coalitions?'
"Nobody tried to answer this.
"'Charles Fox, however,' said Mr. Burke, afterwards, 'can never
internally like the French Revolution. He is entangled; but, in
himself, if he should find no other objection to it, he has at least
too much taste for such a revolution.'...
"Mr. Richard Burke related, very comically, various censures cast upon
his brother, accusing him of being the friend of despots, and the
abettor of slavery, because he had been shocked at the imprisonment of
the King of France, and was anxious to preserve our own limited
monarchy in the same state in which it so long had flourished.
"Mr. Burke looked half alarmed at his brother's opening, but, when he
had finished, he very good-humouredly poured out a glass of wine, and,
turning to me, said, 'Come, then—here's slavery for ever!' This was
well understood, and echoed round the table with hearty laughter.
"'This would do for you completely, Mr. Burke,' said Mrs. Crewe, 'if
it could get into a newspaper! Mr. Burke, they would say, has now
spoken out; the truth has come to light unguardedly, and his real
defection from the cause of true liberty is acknowledged. I should
like to draw up the paragraph!'
"'And add,' said Mr. Burke, 'the toast was addressed to Miss Burney,
in order to pay court to the Queen!'"... After a stroll:
"The party returned with two very singular additions to its number—
Lord Loughborough, and Mr. and Mrs. Erskine. They have villas at
Hampstead, and were met in the walk; Mr. Erskine else would not,
probably, have desired to meet Mr. Burke, who openly in the House of
Commons asked him if he knew what friendship meant, when he pretended
to call him, Mr. Burke, his friend?
"There was an evident disunion of the cordiality of the party from
this time. My father, Mr. Richard Burke, his nephew, and Mr. Elliot
entered into some general discourse; Mr. Burke took up a volume of
Boileau, and read aloud, though to himself, and with a pleasure that
soon made him seem to forget all intruders: Lord Loughborough joined
Mrs. Burke, and Mr. Erskine, seating himself next to Mrs. Crewe,
engrossed her entirely, yet talked loud enough for all to hear who
were not engaged themselves.
"For me, I sat next Mrs. Erskine, who seems much a woman of the world,
for she spoke with me just as freely, and readily, and easily as if we
had been old friends.
"Mr. Erskine enumerated all his avocations to Mrs. Crewe, and, amongst
others, mentioned, very calmly, having to plead against Mr. Crewe upon
a manor business in Cheshire. Mrs. Crewe hastily and alarmed,
interrupted him, to inquire what he meant, and what might ensue to Mr.
Crewe? 'Oh, nothing but the loss of the lordship upon that spot,' he
coolly answered; 'but I don't know that it will be given against him:
I only know I shall have three hundred pounds for it.'
"Mrs. Crewe looked thoughtful; and Mr. Erskine then began to speak of
the new Association for Reform, by the friends of the people, headed
by Messrs. Grey and Sheridan, and sustained by Mr. Fox, and openly
opposed by Mr. Windham, as well as Mr. Burke. He said much of the use
they had made of his name, though he had never yet been to the
society; and I began to understand that he meant to disavow it; but
presently he added, 'I don't know whether I shall ever attend—I have
so much to do—so little time; however, the people must be supported.'
"'Pray, will you tell me,' said Mrs. Crewe dryly, 'what you mean by
the people? I never knew.'
"He looked surprised, but evaded any answer, and soon after took his
leave, with his wife, who seems by no means to admire him as much as
he admires himself, if I may judge by short odd speeches which dropped
from her. The eminence of Mr. Erskine seems all for public life; in
private, his excessive egotisms undo him.
"Lord Loughborough instantly took his seat next to Mrs. Crewe; and
presently related a speech which Mr. Erskine has lately made at some
public meeting, and which he opened to this effect:—'As to me,
gentlemen, I have some title to give my opinions freely. Would you
know what my title is derived from? I challenge any man to inquire! If
he ask my birth,—its genealogy may dispute with kings! If my wealth,
it is all for which I have time to hold out my hand! If my talents,—
No! of those, gentlemen, I leave you to judge for yourselves!'
"But I have now time for no more upon this day, except that Mr. and
Mrs. Burke, in making their exit, gave my father and me the most
cordial invitation to Beaconsfield in the course of the summer or
autumn. And, indeed, I should delight to accept it."
The second half of this year was consumed by a round of visits,
commencing in town, and ending in Norfolk. On leaving London, Miss
Burney accompanied her eldest sister into Essex, where they spent some
time together at Halstead Vicarage. From this place, Fanny went alone to
stay at Bradfield Hall, near Bury St. Edmunds, with the family of the
agriculturist, Arthur Young,[110] who had married a sister of the second
Mrs. Burney.
All over the country, in the autumn of 1792, two subjects only were
talked of, the Revolution in France, and the adventures of the emigrants
to England. Little settlements of refugees had been, or were being,
formed in various districts. One coterie had established themselves at
Richmond, where they received much attention from Horace Walpole. Other
unfortunates found their way to Bury. A third colony, and not the least
important, sought retirement in the Vale of Mickleham. The fugitives, of
course, were not only of different ranks, but of different political
complexions. The Revolution had begun to devour its children; and some
of the exiles had helped to raise the passion which swept them away.
Suffolk had been visited in the spring by the celebrated Countess of
Genlis, governess to the children of Philip Egalité, Duke of Orleans.
This lady, who was now called Madame de Sillery, or Brulard, hired a
house at Bury for herself and her party, which included an authentic
Mademoiselle d'Orléans, besides the Pamela who afterwards married Lord
Edward Fitzgerald, and another young girl. Her establishment also
comprised a number of men, who were treated by the ladies sometimes as
servants, sometimes as equals. The vagaries of this curious household
and its mistress provoked comments which drove them from the county
before Miss Burney entered it. It was rumoured that Madame Brulard's
departure was hastened by the arrival of the Duke de Liancourt, who
warmly denounced her influence over her infamous protector as a
principal cause of the French anarchy. Yet the nobleman just named was
himself known as a friend of the people. He it was who, bursting into
the King's closet to report the fall of the Bastille, had been the first
to utter the word _Revolution_. Arthur Young, who, like most other
well-to-do Englishmen at that moment, was ready to forswear every
popular principle he had formerly professed, inveighed against the
Duke's folly, while he pitied the misfortunes of a man to whom his
travels had laid him under obligation. Fanny met the new-comer at her
host's table, and heard from his own lips the story of his escape from
France. Being in command at Rouen when news of the bloody Tenth of
August reached that city, and finding a price set on his head by the
Jacobins, De Liancourt, with some difficulty, made his way to the sea,
where he embarked in an open boat, and set sail, covered with <DW19>s,
for the opposite coast. He entertained his friends at Bradfield Hall
with an account of his landing at Hastings, describing how he had walked
to the nearest public-house, and, to seem English, had called for '_pot
portère_,' and then, being extremely thirsty, for another; how, overcome
by the strange liquor, he had been carried upstairs in a helpless state,
and put to bed; how he had woke up before day-break in a miserable room,
and fancied himself in a French _maison de force_; how, on creeping
cautiously below, the sight of the kitchen, with its array of bright
pewter plates and polished saucepans, had convinced him that he must be
in a more cleanly country than his native land. What had brought the
Duke to Bury we are not informed: he certainly would not have been at
home with Walpole's friends, who seem to have been staunch adherents of
the _ancien régime_.
Some, though not all, of the strangers at Mickleham had advanced several
degrees beyond the timid constitutionalism of the Duke de Liancourt. The
origin and early history of this settlement were communicated to Fanny
by the journalizing letters of her sister, Mrs. Phillips. Two or three
families had united to take a house near the village, called Juniper
Hall, while another family hired a cottage at West Humble, which the
owner let with great reluctance, 'upon the Christian-like supposition
that, being nothing but French papishes, they would never pay.' The
party at the cottage were presided over by Madame de Broglie,
daughter-in-law of the Maréchal who had commanded the Royalist troops
near Paris. Among the first occupants of Juniper Hall were Narbonne,
recently Constitutionalist Minister of War, and Montmorency, _ci-devant
duc_, from whom had proceeded the motion for suppressing titles of
nobility in France. When Mrs. Phillips made the acquaintance of her new
neighbours, they had been reinforced by fresh arrivals, including an
officer of whom she had not yet heard. This was M. d'Arblay,[111] who,
Susan was told, had been Adjutant-General to her favourite hero,
Lafayette, when that leader surrendered himself to the Allies. On the
chief being sent prisoner to Olmutz, the subordinate was permitted to
withdraw into Holland, whence he was now come to join his intimate
friend and patron, Count Louis de Narbonne. 'He is tall,' wrote Mrs.
Phillips to her sister, 'and a good figure, with an open and manly
countenance; about forty, I imagine.'
The letters from Mickleham were soon full of this General d'Arblay, who
won the heart of good Mrs. Phillips by his amiable manners, and his
attention to her children, while he fortified her in her French
politics, which, to say the truth, were too advanced for Fanny's
acceptance. Both the General and Narbonne were attached to their
unfortunate master, but considered that they had been very badly treated
by Louis, and that it was impossible to serve him, because he could not
trust himself, and in consequence distrusted everybody else. D'Arblay
had been the officer on guard at the Tuileries on the night of the
famous Flight to Varennes. He had not been let into the secret of the
plan, but was left, without warning, to run the risk of being denounced
and murdered for having assisted the King's escape.
Miss Burney was now in Norfolk with her sister Charlotte. But this visit
to her native county proved the reverse of joyful. Soon after her
arrival at Aylsham, Mr. Francis, her brother-in-law, was seized with an
attack of apoplexy, which ended in his death. During his illness, she
interested herself in the accounts of Juniper Hall—she had already heard
something of M. d'Arblay from the Duke de Liancourt—but her attention
was mainly engrossed by the distress of those around her. When all was
over, she remained to assist the widow in settling her affairs, and at
the close of the year accompanied her and the children to London.
-----
Footnote 108:
1737-1806. Lord Macartney's mission to China was narrated in two
interesting works, _Macartney's Journal_, and _Staunton's 'Account
of the Embassy.'_
Footnote 109:
Mrs. Locke.
Footnote 110:
Born in 1741, died in 1821; author of many works on agricultural and
economical subjects. His "Travels in France" were published in this
very year—1792.
Footnote 111:
Alexander d'Arblay was born at Joigny, near Paris. He entered the
French artillery at thirteen years of age. He was commandant at
Longwy, promoted into Narbonne's regiment, and in 1792 made _maréchal
de camp_, or, as we should say, brigadier general.
-----
CHAPTER XII.
Miss Burney at Norbury Park—Execution of the French King—Madame de Staël
and Talleyrand at Mickleham—Miss Burney's Impressions of M. d'Arblay—
Proposed Marriage—Visit to Chesington—The Marriage takes place—A Happy
Match—The General as Gardener—Madame d'Arblay resumes her Pen—Birth of
a Son—'Edwy and Elgiva'—Acquittal of Warren Hastings—Publishing Plans—
The Subscription List—Publication of 'Camilla'—Visit of the Author to
Windsor—Interview with the King and Queen—A Compliment from their
Majesties—The Royal Family on the Terrace—Princess Elizabeth—Great
Sale of 'Camilla'—Criticisms on the Work—Declension of Madame
d'Arblay's Style—Camilla Cottage—Wedded Happiness—Madame d'Arblay's
Comedy of 'Love and Fashion' withdrawn—Death of Mrs. Phillips—
Straitened Circumstances—The d'Arblays go to France—Popularity of
Bonaparte—Reception at the Tuileries and Review—War between England
and France—Disappointments—Life at Passy—Difficulty of Correspondence—
Madame d'Arblay's Desire to return to England—Sails from Dunkirk.
On the opening of 1793, the French Constitutionalists were at the lowest
point of depression and disgrace. They were reviled on all hands for
having given weight and impetus to a movement which they were impotent
to control. Norbury Park and Mickleham were eager that Miss Burney
should see their new friends and judge them for herself. "Your French
colonies," she wrote in reply to Mrs. Locke's pressing invitation, "are
truly attractive: I am sure they must be so to have caught me—so
substantially, fundamentally the foe of all their proceedings while in
power." Having tarried long enough to pay her birthday duty to the
Queen, she left London at the commencement of the season, and went down
to Surrey. A day or two after her arrival came the news of the French
King's execution. The excitement caused by this intelligence quickened
the already frequent intercourse between the Lockes and Juniper Hall,
and Fanny soon found herself on familiar terms with the refugees. Before
the end of January, Madame de Staël appeared on the scene, and placed
herself at the head of the little colony. Necker's daughter had earned
the rage of the Commune by her exertions to save life during the
massacres of August and September; nor was it at all clear that the
privilege which she enjoyed as wife of the Swedish Ambassador would
avail for her protection. She had, therefore, crossed the Channel, and
now joined her Constitutionalist friends at Juniper Hall, whither she
was soon followed by Talleyrand, who had come to England in her company.
No other party of refugees could boast two names of equal distinction,
though French titles had become plentiful as blackberries in several
parts of England. Madame de Staël paid the most flattering attention to
the author of 'Cecilia,' whose second novel had procured her
considerable reputation in Paris. A warm but short-lived intimacy
between the two ladies ensued. No two persons could be less suited to
one another than our timid, prudish little Burney and the brilliant and
audacious French _femme de lettres_. The public acts of the Bishop of
Autun—'the viper that had cast his skin,' as Walpole called him—had not
inclined Fanny in his favour; but his extraordinary powers conquered her
admiration, and as she listened to the exchanges of wit, criticism, and
raillery between him and Madame de Staël, she could see for the moment
no blemishes in either, and looked on the little band of exiles, some of
whom could almost vie with these leaders, as rare spirits from some
brighter world. The group, consisting at different times of some dozen
persons,[112] were all most agreeable; but one, perhaps the least
dazzling of the whole constellation, proved more attractive than the
rest:
"M. d'Arblay," wrote Fanny, "is one of the most singularly interesting
characters that can ever have been formed. He has a sincerity, a
frankness, an ingenuous openness of nature, that I have been unjust
enough to think could not belong to a Frenchman. With all this, which is
his military portion, he is passionately fond of literature, a most
delicate critic in his own language, well versed in both Italian and
German, and a very elegant poet. He has just undertaken to become my
French master for pronunciation, and he gives me long daily lessons in
reading. Pray expect wonderful improvements! In return, I hear him in
English."
The natural consequences followed. In a few days we read: "I have been
scholaring all day, and mastering too; for our lessons are mutual, and
more entertaining than can easily be conceived." Our novelist, in short,
was more romantic than any of her own creations: Evelina, Cecilia, and
Camilla were prosaic women compared with Frances. On the verge of
forty-one, she gave away her heart to an admirer, suitable to her in
age, indeed, but possessing neither fortune, occupation, nor prospects
of any kind. Whatever property d'Arblay could claim, the Convention had
confiscated. Fanny herself had nothing but the small annuity which she
enjoyed during the Queen's pleasure, and which might be discontinued if
she married this Roman Catholic alien. Such a match, in any case,
implied seclusion almost as complete as that from which she had recently
escaped. This was anything but the issue that her father had been
promised when he was pressed to sanction her resignation. It is not
surprising, therefore, that he wrote her a remonstrance stronger and
more decided than he had been in the habit of addressing to any of his
children. But Dr. Burney stood alone. The Lockes and Phillipses were as
much fascinated by their French neighbours as his enamoured daughter.
Susanna was in avowed league with the enemy. Mr. Locke gave it as his
opinion that two persons, with one or more babies, might very well
subsist on a hundred a year. Thus assailed by opposing influences, Fanny
went to deliberate in solitude at Chesington, and sauntered about the
lanes where she had planned 'Cecilia,' wondering if the Muse would ever
visit her again. The General's pursuing letters convinced her that his
grief at her hesitation was sincere and profound. He made a pilgrimage
to see her, which vouched his devotion, and gained him the support of
her simple hostesses, Mrs. Hamilton and Kitty Cooke, who wept at his
tale of misfortunes, and learned for the first time what was meant by
the French Revolution. Finally, through the mediation of his favourite
Susanna, Dr. Burney was persuaded to give way and send a reluctant
consent. The wedding took place on the 31st of July, 1793, in Mickleham
Church, in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Locke, Captain and Mrs.
Phillips, M. de Narbonne, and Captain Burney, who acted as proxy for his
father. On the following day, the ceremony was repeated at the Sardinian
Chapel in Lincoln's Inn Fields, according to the rites of the Romish
Church.
The marriage proved eminently happy. Dr. Burney, though he shrank from
giving away the bride, was a respecter of accomplished facts, and soon
became on excellent terms with his new son-in-law. The late impetuous
lovers proceeded to translate their romance into the most sober prose.
Love in a cottage had been the goal of their ambition. Mr. Locke had
promised a site for the cottage; but as funds for building it were not
immediately forthcoming, the pair went first into farm lodgings,
afterwards into a hired house of two or three rooms at Bookham, within
two miles of Mickleham and Norbury Park. D'Arblay, a man of real honour,
would have left his wife, almost in their honeymoon, to fight for Louis
XVII. at Toulon; but his offer of service was declined by the English
Government, and thenceforth the General resigned himself to wait for
better times. Like a sensible man, _il cultivait son jardin_. Like a man
of sense, but not like a good husbandman. His wife, who, notwithstanding
her happiness, seems to have lost her sense of humour very soon after
matrimony, enjoyed one of her last hearty laughs at the expense of her
lord:
"This sort of work is so totally new to him, that he receives every
now and then some of poor Merlin's[113] 'disagreeable compliments';
for when Mr. Locke's or the Captain's gardeners favour our grounds
with a visit, they commonly make known that all has been done wrong.
Seeds are sowing in some parts when plants ought to be reaping, and
plants are running to seed while they are thought not yet at maturity.
Our garden, therefore, is not yet quite the most profitable thing in
the world; but M. d'A. assures me it is to be the staff of our table
and existence.
"A little, too, he has been unfortunate; for, after immense toil in
planting and transplanting strawberries round our hedge here at
Bookham, he has just been informed they will bear no fruit the first
year, and the second we may be 'over the hills and far away.'
"Another time, too, with great labour, he cleared a considerable
compartment of weeds; and when it looked clean and well, and he showed
his work to the gardener, the man said he had demolished an asparagus
bed! M. d'A. protested, however, nothing could look more like _des
mauvaises herbes_.
"His greatest passion is for transplanting. Everything we possess he
moves from one end of the garden to another to produce better effects.
Roses take place of jessamines, jessamines of honeysuckles, and
honeysuckles of lilacs, till they have all danced round as far as the
space allows; but whether the effect may not be a general mortality,
summer only can determine.
"Such is our horticultural history. But I must not omit that we have
had for one week cabbages from our own cultivation every day! Oh, you
have no idea how sweet they tasted! We agreed they had a freshness and
a _goût_ we had never met with before. We had them for too short a
time to grow tired of them, because, as I have already hinted, they
were beginning to run to seed before we knew they were eatable."
While the General was gardening, Madame plied her pen, using it once
more, after the lapse of a dozen years, with a definite purpose of
publication. Her first composition was for a charitable object. It was
an address to the ladies of England on behalf of the emigrant French
clergy, who, to the number of 6,000, were suffering terrible distress
all over the country. This short paper is an early example of the
stilted rhetoric which gradually ruined its author's style. Some months
later we hear of a more important work being in progress. This tale,
eventually published under the title of 'Camilla,' was commenced in the
summer of 1794, though it did not see the light till July, 1796.
A son, their only child, was born on December 18, 1794, and was baptized
Alexander Charles Louis Piochard, receiving the name of his father, with
those of his two god-fathers, Dr. Charles Burney the younger, and the
Count de Narbonne.
An illness, which retarded the mother's recovery, interrupted the
progress of her novel, and perhaps counted for something in the failure
of the tragedy with which, as we mentioned before, she tempted fortune
on the stage. 'Edwy and Elgiva'—so this drama was called—was produced at
Drury Lane on March 21, 1795. It says much for the author's repute that
John Kemble warmly recommended her work to Sheridan, who seems to have
accepted it without hesitation or criticism. The principal characters
were undertaken by Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. At the close of the
performance, it was announced that the piece was withdrawn for
alterations. There was a little complaint that several of the actors
were careless and unprepared; but, on the whole, Madame d'Arblay bore
her defeat with excellent temper. She consoled herself with the thought
that her play had not been written for the theatre, nor even revised for
the press; that the manuscript had been obtained from her during her
confinement; and that she had been prevented by ill-health from
attending rehearsals, and making the changes which, on the night of
representation, even her unprofessional judgment perceived to be
essential. Yet it is difficult to imagine that a tragedy by the author
of 'Evelina' could, under any circumstances, have been successful; and
we are more surprised that Sheridan was so complaisant than that Dr.
Burney had always shrugged his shoulders when the Saxon drama was
mentioned in his hearing.
Three years sooner the dramatist would have felt her personal mishap
more keenly, as she would have welcomed with far livelier pleasure an
event of a public nature which occurred shortly afterwards. On April 23,
1795, Warren Hastings was triumphantly acquitted. The incident hardly
stirred her at all. She was now experiencing that detachment which is
the portion of ladies even of social and literary tastes, when they have
accomplished the great function of womanhood. Her father writes her a
pleasant account of his London life, relating some characteristic
condolences which he had received from Cumberland on the fate of her
play, mentioning his own visit of congratulation to Hastings, and
chatting about the doings at the Literary Club. The blissful mother
replies in a letter, dated from the 'Hermitage, Bookham,' which is
principally occupied with praises of rural retirement and the
intelligent infant, though it ends with some words about the tragedy,
and a postscript expressing satisfaction at the acquittal. Not long
before, Frances Burney had repined at living in what she rather inaptly
called a monastery: Frances d'Arblay is more than content with the
company of her gardener and their little 'perennial plant.' At her
marriage, she had counted on having the constant society of Susanna and
her Captain, as well as the Lockes; but in June, 1795, the Phillipses
remove to town, and are not missed. The Bambino not only supplied all
gaps, but made his willing slave work as hard at 'Camilla' as, long
years before, she had worked at 'Cecilia' under the jealous eye of her
Chesington daddy.
She was now as keen as Crisp would have had her be in calculating how
she could make most money by her pen. 'I determined,' she says, 'when I
changed my state, to set aside all my innate and original abhorrences,
and to regard and use as resources myself what had always been
considered as such by others. Without this idea and this resolution, our
hermitage must have been madness.' She had formerly objected to a plan,
suggested for her by Burke, of publishing by subscription, with the aid
of ladies, instead of booksellers, to keep lists and receive names of
subscribers. She determined to adopt this plan in bringing out
'Camilla.' The Dowager Duchess of Leinster, Mrs. Boscawen, Mrs. Crewe,
and Mrs. Locke, gave her the required assistance. In issuing her
proposals, she was careful not to excite the prejudice which still
prevailed against works of fiction.[114] She remembered that the word
_novel_ had long stood in the way of 'Cecilia' at Windsor, and that the
Princesses had not been allowed to read it until it had been declared
innocent by a bishop. 'Camilla,' she warned her friends, was 'not to be
a romance, but sketches of characters and morals put in action.' It was,
therefore, announced simply as 'a new work by the author of Evelina and
Cecilia.' The manuscript was completed by the end of 1795; but, as in
the case of 'Cecilia,' six months more elapsed before the day of
publication arrived.
Meanwhile, the subscription-list filled up nobly. When Warren Hastings
heard what was going forward, we are told that "he gave a great jump,
and exclaimed, 'Well, then, now I can serve her, thank Heaven, and I
will! I will write to Anderson to engage Scotland, and I will attack the
East Indies myself!'" Nor was Edmund Burke less zealous than his old
enemy. Protesting that for personal friends the subscription ought to be
five guineas instead of one, he asked for but one copy of 'Camilla' in
return for twenty guineas which he sent on behalf of himself, his wife,
his dead brother Richard, and the son for whom he was in mourning. In
the same spirit, three Misses Thrale order ten sets of the book. As we
glance down the pages of the list, we meet with most of the survivors of
the old Blue Stockings, with Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Chapone, Mrs. Montagu,
and Hannah Moore. There, too, are many literary women of other types:
Anna Barbauld, Amelia Alderson, afterwards Mrs. Opie, Mary Berry, Maria
Edgeworth, Sophia and Harriet Lee.[115] There the incomparable Jane
Austen, then a girl of twenty, pays tribute to a passed mistress of her
future art. There also figure the names of many of the writer's former
colleagues in the royal household. Even Mrs. Schwellenberg is on the
list. Perhaps, as the book was to be dedicated by permission to the
Queen, this was almost a matter of course. But the subscription was, in
fact, a testimonial to a general favourite from hundreds of attached
friends, some of whom cared little for literature; as well as from a
crowd of distant admirers, who regarded her as the most eminent female
writer of her time.
The first parcel of 'Camilla; or, A Picture of Youth,' reached Bookham
on an early day in July, 1796; and Madame d'Arblay at once set off for
Windsor to present copies to the King and Queen. Immediately on her
arrival, she was admitted to an audience of the Queen, during which the
King entered to receive his share of the offering. The excellent monarch
was in one of his most interrogative moods, and particularly curious to
learn who had corrected the proofs of the volumes before him. His
flattered subject confessed that she was her own reader. 'Why, some
authors have told me,' cried he, 'that they are the last to do that work
for themselves! They know so well by heart what ought to be, that they
run on without seeing what is. They have told me, besides, that a mere
plodding head is best and surest for that work, and that the livelier
the imagination, the less it should be trusted to.' Madame had carried
her husband with her to Windsor. They were detained there three days;
and, as Walpole remarks with some emphasis, even M. d'Arblay was allowed
to dine. Horace means, of course, that the General, who had the Cross of
St. Louis, was invited to a place at Mdlle. Jacobi's table. Just before
dinner, Madame d'Arblay was called aside by her entertainer, and
presented, in the name of their Majesties, with a packet containing a
hundred guineas, as a 'compliment' in acknowledgment of her dedication.
On the following day, the Chevalier and his wife repaired to the
Terrace. "The evening was so raw and cold that there was very little
company, and scarce any expectation of the Royal Family; and when we had
been there about half an hour the musicians retreated, and everybody was
preparing to follow, when a messenger suddenly came forward,
helter-skelter, running after the horns and clarionets, and hallooing to
them to return. This brought back the straggling parties, and the King,
Duke of York, and six Princesses soon appeared.... The King stopped to
speak to the Bishop of Norwich[116] and some others at the entrance, and
then walked on towards us, who were at the further end. As he
approached, the Princess Royal said, 'Madame d'Arblay, sir;' and
instantly he came on a step, and then stopped and addressed me, and
after a word or two of the weather, he said, 'Is that M. d'Arblay?' and
most graciously bowed to him, and entered into a little conversation,
demanding how long he had been in England, how long in the country, etc.
Upon the King's bowing and leaving us, the Commander-in-Chief most
courteously bowed also to M. d'Arblay; and the Princesses all came up to
speak to me, and to curtsey to him, and the Princess Elizabeth cried,
'I've got leave! and mamma says she won't wait to read it first!'"
The lively Princess, who was then twenty-six years of age, and had been
concerned in bringing out a poem entitled the 'Birth of Love,' with
engravings from designs by herself, intended to communicate that she had
obtained permission to read 'Camilla,' though it had not yet been
examined by her mother.
The subscribers to the new novel exceeded eleven hundred; but the number
of copies printed was four thousand. Out of these only five hundred
remained at the end of three months—a rate of sale considerably more
rapid than that of 'Cecilia' had been. Macaulay mentions a rumour that
the author cleared more than three thousand guineas by her work. This is
not an improbable account; for Dr. Burney told Lord Orford within the
first six weeks that about two thousand pounds had already been
realized.[117] The material results were astonishing; yet 'Camilla'
could not be considered a success. The 'Picture of Youth' had neither
the freshness of 'Evelina,' nor the mature power of 'Cecilia.' It was
wanting alike in simplicity and polish. By disuse of her art, the writer
had lost touch with the public; by neglect of reading, she had gone back
in literary culture. Hence it was generally felt that the charm which
she had exercised was gone. The reviews were severe; new admirers
appeared not; old friends found their faith a good deal tried. When the
first demand was satisfied, there seems to have been no call for a fresh
edition, though some years afterwards Miss Austen boldly coupled[118]
'Camilla' with 'Cecilia' as a 'work in which most thorough knowledge of
human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest
effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world.' When its five
volumes were most sharply handled, brother Charles could console the
chagrined author with the distich:
'Now heed no more what critics thought 'em,
Since this you know, all people bought 'em.'
The composition of 'Camilla' has been blamed for the opposite faults of
affectation and slovenliness. 'Every passage,' says Macaulay, 'which the
author meant to be fine is detestable; and the book has been saved from
condemnation only by the admirable spirit and force of those scenes in
which she was content to be familiar.' Other censors have observed that,
while the rhetoric is inflated, the grammar is occasionally doubtful,
and the diction sometimes barbarous. Now, it must be owned that the
ordinary vocabulary of the Burneys was not remarkable for purity or
elegance. In their talk and intimate letters, both the father and the
daughters expressed themselves in the most colloquial forms, not seldom
lapsing into downright slang. To give one instance only, the atrocious
vulgarism of 'an invite' for 'an invitation' occurs in several parts of
the Diary. When writing for the press, Dr. Burney guarded himself by the
adoption of a wholly artificial style, that swelled, from time to time,
into tedious magniloquence. Fanny was schooled for writing 'Cecilia' by
the critical discussions of the Streatham circle, by much intercourse
with Johnson, and by some study of style—chiefly the style of the
'Ramblers' and 'Lives of the Poets.' Having despatched her second novel,
she ceased to be careful about literary questions. This indifference
increased after her marriage. When describing the reception of 'Camilla'
at Windsor, 'the Queen,' she writes, 'talked of some books and authors,
but found me wholly in the clouds as to all that is new.' Her husband,
insensible, of course, to the niceties of a foreign idiom, but
apparently admiring pompous phraseology, conceived a relish for Dr.
Burney's style; and Madame, delighting to think her 'dear father'
perfect, was pleased to place his English in the very first class.[119]
The eloquence of 'Camilla' seems to mingle faint Johnsonian echoes with
the stilted movement of the music-master's prose; while too often the
choice of words is left to chance. A recent editor of the two earlier
novels has called attention to the numerous vulgarities of expression,
not put into vulgar mouths, which occur in 'Camilla.' 'People "_stroam_
the fields," or have "a depressing _feel_."' This editor suggests that
Miss Burney's five years at Court may have done much to spoil her
English, remarking that 'she lived at Windsor among hybrids.' By
'hybrids' we suppose we are to understand equerries. But the equerries,
if not possessing great culture, were, at any rate, gentlemen of good
position. If they used the incriminated phrases why not also the
personages of the novel? We take it, however, that 'to stroam the
fields' is not a low phrase acquired by Fanny at Court, but a
provincialism which she learned in her native county, where the verb to
'stroam,' or to 'strome,' was certainly in use a hundred years ago,[120]
and is, we are assured, familiarly employed at the present day. We
believe that Madame d'Arblay's English was ruined, not by associating
with Colonel Digby, or even Colonel Manners, but by neglect of reading,
by retirement from lettered society, by fading recollections of Johnson,
by untoward family influences, and by a strong hereditary tendency to
run into fustian.
In October, 1796, Dr. Burney lost his second wife, who, after a
prolonged period of ill-health, died at Chelsea Hospital. To prevent him
from brooding over his bereavement, Madame d'Arblay induced her father
to resume a poetical history of astronomy which he had begun some time
before. This occupation amused him for some time, though in the end the
poem, which ran to a great length, was destroyed unfinished.
Out of the profits made by his wife's publication, M. d'Arblay built a
small house on land leased to him by Mr. Locke at West Humble, near
Dorking, and called it Camilla Cottage. If a family, as well as a
nation, is happy that has no history, we must conclude that the
d'Arblays lived very much at ease for some years after their removal to
their new abode. When the excitement of planning, building, and taking
possession is exhausted, Madame's pen finds little to record, beyond the
details of occasional interviews with the Queen and Princesses at
Buckingham House. She wisely declines a proposal of Mrs. Crewe to make
her directress of a weekly paper, which was to have been started, under
the name of _The Breakfast-Table_, to combat the progress of Jacobinical
ideas. Later on she abandons unwillingly a venture of a different kind.
Still thirsting for dramatic success, she had written a comedy called
'Love and Fashion;' and towards the close of 1799 was congratulating
herself on having it accepted by the manager of Covent Garden
Theatre.[121] The piece was put into rehearsal early in the following
spring; but Dr. Burney was seized with such dread of another failure,
that, to appease him, his daughter and her husband consented to its
being withdrawn. The compliance cost some effort: Fanny complained that
she was treated as if she 'had been guilty of a crime, in doing what she
had all her life been urged to, and all her life intended—writing a
comedy.' 'The combinations,' she added, 'for another long work did not
occur to me: incidents and effects for a drama did.'
This was only a transient disappointment. In the first days of 1800 came
a lasting sorrow, in the loss of Mrs. Phillips, who, since the autumn of
1796, had been living with her husband in Ireland, and who died
immediately after landing in England on her way to visit her
father.[122] But, except by this grief, the peace of Camilla Cottage was
never interrupted so long as the husband and wife remained together. In
her old age, Madame d'Arblay looked back to the first eight years of her
married life as to a period of unruffled happiness.
Then occurred a crisis. The d'Arblays had borne poverty cheerfully, even
joyfully, so long as any stretch of economy would enable them to keep
within their income. The cost of living and the burden of taxation had
begun to increase almost from the day of their marriage. One of the
motives for bringing out 'Camilla' was the rise of prices, which had
doubled within the preceding eighteen months. Hardly was Camilla Cottage
occupied, when an addition to the window-tax compelled the owners to
block up four of their new windows. The expense of building so much
exceeded calculation that, after all bills were settled, the balance
remaining from the foundress's three thousand guineas produced only a
few pounds of annual interest. In the spring of 1800, we read that the
gardener has planted potatoes on every spot where they can grow, on
account of the dreadful price of provisions. Towards the close of 1801,
it is admitted that for some time previously they had been encroaching
on their little capital, which was then nearly exhausted. As soon,
therefore, as the preliminaries of peace were signed, M. d'Arblay
determined to remove his family to France, hoping to recover something
from the wreck of his fortune, and to obtain from the First Consul some
allowance for half-pay as a retired officer. Crossing the Channel alone,
in the first instance, the General involved himself in a double
difficulty: he failed with the French Government by stipulating that he
should not be required to serve against his wife's country, while he had
cut off his retreat by pledging himself at the English Alien Office not
to return within a year. In this dilemma, he wrote to his wife to join
him in Paris with their child. Madame d'Arblay obeyed the summons,
amidst the anxious forebodings of her father, but with the full approval
of the Queen, who granted her a farewell audience, admitting that she
was bound to follow her husband.
Dr. Burney's fears were more than justified by the event. His daughter
left Dover a few days after the treaty was signed at Amiens. When she
reached Paris, she found the city rejoicing at the conclusion of the
war, yet worshipping Bonaparte, whose temper and attitude showed that
the peace could not last. A reception by the First Consul, followed by a
review, both of which Madame d'Arblay witnessed from an ante-chamber in
the Tuileries, afforded striking evidence of the military spirit which
animated everything:
"The scene, with regard to all that was present, was splendidly gay
and highly animating. The room was full, but not crowded, with
officers of rank in sumptuous rather than rich uniforms, and
exhibiting a martial air that became their attire, which, however,
generally speaking, was too gorgeous to be noble.
"Our window was that next to the consular apartment, in which
Bonaparte was holding a levée, and it was close to the steps ascending
to it; by which means we saw all the forms of the various exits and
entrances, and had opportunity to examine every dress and every
countenance that passed and repassed. This was highly amusing, I might
say historic, where the past history and the present office were
known.
"Sundry footmen of the First Consul, in very fine liveries, were
attending to bring or arrange chairs for whoever required them;
various peace-officers, superbly begilt, paraded occasionally up and
down the chamber, to keep the ladies to their windows and the
gentlemen to their ranks, so as to preserve the passage or lane,
through which the First Consul was to walk upon his entrance, clear
and open; and several gentlemanlike-looking persons, whom in former
times I should have supposed pages of the back-stairs, dressed in
black, with gold chains hanging round their necks, and medallions
pending from them, seemed to have the charge of the door itself,
leading immediately to the audience chamber of the First Consul.
"But what was most prominent in commanding notice, was the array of
the aides-de-camp of Bonaparte, which was so almost furiously
striking, that all other vestments, even the most gaudy, appeared
suddenly under a gloomy cloud when contrasted with its brightness....
"The last object for whom the way was cleared was the Second Consul,
Cambacérès, who advanced with a stately and solemn pace, slow,
regular, and consequential; dressed richly in scarlet and gold, and
never looking to the right or left, but wearing a mien of fixed
gravity and importance. He had several persons in his suite, who, I
think, but am not sure, were ministers of state.
"At length the two human hedges were finally formed, the door of the
audience chamber was thrown wide open with a commanding crash, and a
vivacious officer—sentinel—or I know not what, nimbly descended the
three steps into our apartment, and placing himself at the side of the
door, with one hand spread as high as possible above his head, and the
other extended horizontally, called out in a loud and authoritative
voice, 'Le Premier Consul!'
"You will easily believe nothing more was necessary to obtain
attention; not a soul either spoke or stirred as he and his suite
passed along, which was so quickly that, had I not been placed so near
the door, and had not all about me facilitated my standing foremost,
and being least crowd-obstructed, I could hardly have seen him. As it
was, I had a view so near, though so brief, of his face, as to be very
much struck by it. It is of a deeply impressive cast, pale even to
sallowness, while not only in the eye, but in every feature—care,
thought, melancholy, and meditation are strongly marked, with so much
of character, nay, genius, and so penetrating a seriousness, or rather
sadness, as powerfully to sink into an observer's mind....
"The review I shall attempt no description of. I have no knowledge of
the subject, and no fondness for its object. It was far more superb
than anything I had ever beheld; but while all the pomp and
circumstance of war animated others, it only saddened me; and all of
past reflection, all of future dread, made the whole grandeur of the
martial scene, and all the delusive seduction of martial music, fill
my eyes frequently with tears, but not regale my poor muscles with one
single smile.
"Bonaparte, mounting a beautiful and spirited white horse, closely
encircled by his glittering aides-de-camp, and accompanied by his
generals, rode round the ranks, holding his bridle indifferently in
either hand, and seeming utterly careless of the prancing, rearing, or
other freaks of his horse, insomuch as to strike some who were near me
with a notion of his being a bad horseman."
Having introduced his wife to old friends in Paris, and paid a visit
with her to his relations at Joigny, the General settled his family in a
small house at Passy. Instead of being seen at Chelsea again within
eighteen months, as her father had been led to expect, she was detained
in France more than ten years. From the moment when Lord Whitworth
quitted Paris in May, 1803, her opportunities of communicating with
England were few and far between. All remittances thence, including her
annuity, ended with the peace. The claims to property on which her
husband had built proved delusive. Apparently they would have been
without means of any kind, but that, just as war was declared, the
influence of General Lauriston procured for his old comrade the
_retraite_, or retiring allowance, for which the latter had been
petitioning. Yet this only amounted to £62 10s. yearly, so that the
luckless pair would have been far better off in their cottage at West
Humble. Moreover, the receipt of half-pay made it impossible for them to
risk any attempt at escape while the war continued. At length, in 1805,
M. d'Arblay obtained employment in the Civil Department of the Office of
Public Buildings. He became, in fact, a Government clerk, plodding daily
between his desk and a poorly-furnished home at suburban Passy. He seems
to have been eventually promoted to the rank of _sous-chef_ in his
department.
We learn, however, from the scanty notices belonging to this period,
that the Chevalier was treated with consideration by the heads of his
office, and that he and Madame kept their footing in Parisian society.
'The society in which I mix,' writes the lady, 'when I can prevail with
myself to quit my yet dearer fireside, is all that can be wished,
whether for wit, wisdom, intelligence, gaiety, or politeness.' She would
resume, she adds, her old descriptions if she could only write more
frequently, or with more security that she was not writing to the winds
and the waves. Her worst distress was the rarity with which letters
could be despatched, or travel either way, with anything like safety. At
another time she tells her father: 'I have never heard whether the last
six letters I have written have as yet been received. Two of them were
antiques that had waited three or four years some opportunity ... the
two last were to reach you through a voyage by America.' The very letter
in which this is said lost its chance of being sent, and was not
finished till a year later. Dr. Burney, in his fear of a miscarriage,
finally gave up writing, and charged his family and friends to follow
his example. Fanny had nothing to regret in her husband, except his
being overworked and in poor health: her heart shrank from leaving him;
yet her longing for England increased from year to year. Her visionary
castles, she said, were not in the air, but on the sea.
In 1810 she had prepared everything for flight, when fresh rigours of
the police obliged her to relinquish her design. In 1811 she had a
dangerous illness, and was operated upon by the famous surgeon, Baron de
Larrey, for a supposed cancer. In the summer of 1812, when Napoleon had
set out on his Russian campaign, she obtained a passport for America,
took ship with her son at Dunkirk, and landed at Deal. During the
interval between her first and second attempts at crossing, all
correspondence with England was prohibited on pain of death. One letter
alone reached her, announcing in brief terms the death of the Princess
Amelia, the renewed and hopeless derangement of the King, and the death
of Mr. Locke.
-----
Footnote 112:
Among other names, we find, besides those already mentioned, the
Marquise de la Châtre, M. de Jaucourt, M. Sicard, the Princesse
d'Hénin, De Lally Tollendal, Dumont.
Footnote 113:
A French inventor whom Fanny had met at Streatham.
Footnote 114:
How strong this prejudice continued to be was shown not long
afterwards in a notable instance. Jane Austen's father offered her
'Pride and Prejudice' to Cadell on November 1, 1797; the proposal was
rejected by return of post, without an inspection of the manuscript,
though Mr. Austen was willing to bear the risk of the publication.
Footnote 115:
Author of the 'Canterbury Tales.'
Footnote 116:
Dr. Manners Sutton, then also Dean of Windsor, and afterwards
Archbishop of Canterbury.
Footnote 117:
Lord Orford to Miss Berry, Aug. 16, 1796.
Footnote 118:
In 'Northanger Abbey,' which, though written in 1798, was not prepared
for the press till 1803.
Footnote 119:
Diary, iv. 3.
Footnote 120:
Forby's 'Vocabulary of East Anglia,' p. 330.
Footnote 121:
According to her biographer, the manager had promised her £400 for the
right of representation.
Footnote 122:
Her death took place on January 6, 1800; she was buried in Neston
churchyard, where Dr. Burney placed an epitaph to her memory.
-----
CHAPTER XIII.
Madame d'Arblay's Plans for her Son—Landing in England—Arrival at
Chelsea—Saddening Change in Dr. Burney—Alexander d'Arblay at
Cambridge—Publication of the 'Wanderer'—Death of Dr. Burney—Madame
d'Arblay presented to Louis XVIII.—M. d'Arblay appointed to the Corps
de Gardes du Roi—Arrives in England and Carries Madame back to France—
Madame d'Arblay presented to the Duchess d'Angoulême—The Hundred Days—
Panic at Brussels—M. d'Arblay invalided—Settles in England—His Death—
Remaining Days of Madame d'Arblay—Visit from Sir Walter Scott—The
Memoirs of Dr. Burney—Tributes to their Value—Death of Alexander
d'Arblay—Death of Madame d'Arblay—Conclusion.
Madame d'Arblay had other reasons for wishing to return to England
besides the mere desire to see her father and kindred. The longer her
only child remained in France, the greater risk he ran of being caught
by the conscription, which continually increased its demands. The young
Alexander was now of an age to be prepared for a profession, and it
cannot be doubted that his mother was anxious to make provision for this
purpose. Before leaving Paris, she had begun a treaty in London for the
publication of her fourth story. Through what channel this was done we
do not learn, but as early as December, 1811, Lord Byron[123] had heard
that a thousand guineas were being asked for a new novel by Madame
d'Arblay. She brought the manuscript over with her in a half-finished
state.
The travellers did not escape the perils of the time, though happily
they were taken prisoners by their own countrymen. They and several
others had engaged berths on board an American vessel, the astute
captain of which delayed his departure so long, in order to obtain more
passengers, that when at length he entered British waters, he found
himself a prize to the coastguard, news having just arrived that the
United States had declared war against England.
It was the middle of August when mother and son found themselves again
on English ground. 'I can hardly believe it,' writes the former to her
sister Charlotte, now Mrs. Broome; 'I look around me in constant inquiry
and doubt; I speak French to every soul, and I whisper still if I utter
a word that breathes private opinion.' She goes on to describe her
meeting with her father: 'I found him in his library by himself—but, oh!
my dearest, very much altered indeed—weak, weak and changed—his head
almost always hanging down, and his hearing most cruelly impaired. I was
terribly affected, but most grateful to God for my arrival.' During the
separation, Dr. Burney had not been unfortunate until the infirmities of
age overcame him: the pension which he ought to have received from Mr.
Pitt had been procured for him by Mr. Fox. He had been happily employed
in writing for Rees's Encyclopædia; had received flattering notice from
the Prince of Wales; had heard his Royal Highness quote Homer in Greek
and imitate Dr. Parr's lisp, and talked familiarly with him at the
opera; had been a courted guest in many great houses; and had enjoyed
the meetings of the Club till his sight and hearing both began to fail.
When he could no longer go abroad, he spent most of his time in reading
in his bedroom. Madame d'Arblay employed herself during this visit to
England in nursing her father in his last days, in settling her son at
Cambridge, and in bringing out her new book.
Having obtained the Tancred scholarship, Alexander d'Arblay commenced
residence at Christ's College, Cambridge, in October, 1813. He
eventually graduated as tenth Wrangler, and became Fellow of his
college. 'But,' says Macaulay, who had mixed with his fellow-students,
'his reputation at the University was higher than might be inferred from
his success in academical contests. His French education had not fitted
him for the examinations of the Senate House;[124] but in pure
mathematics we have been assured by some of his competitors that he had
very few equals.'
'The Wanderer; or, Female Difficulties' appeared in the beginning of
1814. Notwithstanding the falling-off which had been observed in
'Camilla,' the whole edition of the new work was bespoken before it was
published. In six months, 3,600 copies were sold at two guineas a copy.
But it may be doubted whether the most conscientious reader persevered
to the end of the fifth volume. Ten years of exile had destroyed all
trace of the qualities which made 'Evelina' popular.
Dr. Burney lived to his eighty-eighth birthday, and died at Chelsea on
the 12th of April, 1814, in the presence of his recovered daughter, who
had tended his last hours. A tablet to his memory, bearing an
inscription from her pen, was placed in Westminster Abbey.
A few days after his death, Madame d'Arblay was presented to Louis
XVIII. By desire of Queen Charlotte, she attended a reception held by
the restored King in London on the day preceding his departure for
France. Her sovereign—for it must be remembered that she was now a
French subject—paid her the most courteous attention. Addressing her 'in
very pretty English,' he told her that he had known her long, for he had
been charmed with her books, and 'read them very often.' He bade her
farewell in French, with the words 'Bonjour, Madame la Comtesse.'
M. d'Arblay had no further reason to complain of Bourbon ingratitude.
Within a few weeks he received a commission in the King's Corps de
Gardes, and soon afterwards he was restored to his former rank of
Maréchal de Camp. He obtained leave of absence towards the close of the
year, and came to England for a few weeks; after which Madame d'Arblay
returned with him to Paris, leaving their son to pursue his studies at
Cambridge.
In the early weeks of 1815, Madame d'Arblay was admitted to an audience
of the Duchesse d'Angoulême, the King's niece; close on which followed
the return of Bonaparte from Elba, and the Hundred Days. Neither the
General nor his wife seems to have felt any alarm till the Corsican
reached Lyons. Then a passport was obtained for Madame, that she might
be able to leave France in case of need, while her husband remained
fixed to his post in the capital. In the night between the 19th and 20th
of March, after the King had left Paris, and not many hours before
Napoleon entered it, Madame d'Arblay took her departure, accompanied by
the Princesse d'Hénin. After many difficulties and misadventures, the
fugitives reached Brussels. In that city Madame d'Arblay was presently
joined by her husband, who had followed Louis XVIII. to Ghent with the
rest of the royal bodyguard. She remained in Brussels till the close of
the campaign, and for some weeks longer. At a later date she wrote from
memory a narrative of what befell her during this period. It includes a
description of the scenes that occurred in the Belgian capital while the
armies were facing each other within cannon-sound of its streets. The
account is graphic, though too diffuse to be quoted at length; evidently
it furnished Thackeray with much of the material for the famous chapters
in 'Vanity Fair.' We give some abridged extracts:
"What a day of confusion and alarm did we all spend on the 17th!...
That day, and June 18th, I passed in hearing the cannon! Good Heaven!
what indescribable horror to be so near the field of slaughter! such I
call it, for the preparation to the ear by the tremendous sound was
soon followed by its fullest effect, in the view of the wounded....
And hardly more afflicting was this disabled return from the battle,
than the sight of the continually pouring forth victims that marched
past my windows to meet similar destruction....
"Accounts from the field of battle arrived hourly; sometimes directly
from the Duke of Wellington to Lady Charlotte Greville, and to some
other ladies who had near relations in the combat, and which, by their
means, were circulated in Brussels; and in other times from such as
conveyed those amongst the wounded Belgians, whose misfortunes were
inflicted near enough to the skirts of the spots of action, to allow
of their being dragged away by their hovering countrymen to the
city....
"During this period, I spent my whole time in seeking intelligence....
"Ten times, at least, I crossed over to Madame d'Hénin, discussing
plans and probabilities, and interchanging hopes and fears....
"Madame d'Hénin and Madame de la Tour du Pin projected retreating to
Gand, should the approach of the enemy be unchecked; to avail
themselves of such protection as might be obtained from seeking it
under the wing of Louis XVIII. M. de la Tour du Pin had, I believe,
remained there with his Majesty.
"M. de Lally and the Boyds inclined to Antwerp, where they might
safely await the fate of Brussels, near enough for returning, should
it weather the storm, yet within reach of vessels to waft them to the
British shores should it be lost.
"Should this last be the fatal termination, I, of course had agreed to
join the party of the voyage, and resolved to secure my passport,
that, while I waited to the last moment, I might yet be prepared for a
hasty retreat.
"I applied for a passport to Colonel Jones, to whom the Duke of
Wellington had deputed the military command of Brussels in his
absence; but he was unwilling to sanction an evacuation of Brussels,
which he deemed premature. It was not, he said, for _us_, the English,
to spread alarm, or prepare for an overthrow: he had not sent away his
own wife or children, and he had no doubt but victory would repay his
confidence....
"I found upon again going my rounds for information, that though news
was arriving incessantly from the scene of action, and with details
always varying, Bonaparte was always advancing. All the people of
Brussels lived in the streets. Doors seemed of no use, for they were
never shut. The individuals, when they re-entered their houses, only
resided at the windows: so that the whole population of the city
seemed constantly in public view. Not only business as well as society
was annihilated, but even every species of occupation. All of which we
seemed capable was, to inquire or to relate, to speak or to hear. Yet
no clamour, no wrangling, nor even debate was intermixed with either
question or answer; curiosity, though incessant, was serene; the faces
were all monotony, though the tidings were all variety. I could
attribute this only to the length of time during which the inhabitants
had been habituated to change both of masters and measures, and to
their finding that, upon an average, they neither lost nor gained by
such successive revolutions....
"But what a day was the next—_June 18th_—the greatest, perhaps, in its
results, in the annals of Great Britain!...
"I was calmly reposing, when I was awakened by the sound of feet
abruptly entering my drawing-room. I started, and had but just time to
see by my watch that it was only six o'clock, when a rapping at my
bedroom door ... made me slip on a long kind of domino, ... and demand
what was the matter. "Open your door! there is not a moment to lose!"
was the answer, in the voice of Miss Ann Boyd. I obeyed, in great
alarm, and saw that pretty and pleasing young woman, with her mother,
Mrs. Boyd.... They both eagerly told me that all their new hopes had
been overthrown by better authenticated news, and that I must be with
them by eight o'clock, to proceed to the wharf, and set sail for
Antwerp, whence we must sail on for England, should the taking of
Brussels by Bonaparte endanger Antwerp also....
"My host and my maid carried my small package, and I arrived before
eight in the Rue d'Assault. We set off for the wharf on foot, not a
fiacre or chaise being procurable. Mr. and Mrs. Boyd, five or six of
their family, a governess, and I believe some servants, with bearers
of our baggage, made our party.... When we had got about a third part
of the way, a heavy rumbling sound made us stop to listen. It was
approaching nearer and nearer, and we soon found that we were followed
by innumerable carriages, and a multitude of persons....
"Arrived at the wharf, Mr. Boyd pointed out to us our barge, which
seemed fully ready for departure; but the crowd, already come and
still coming, so incommoded us, that Mr. Boyd desired we would enter a
large inn, and wait till he could speak with the master, and arrange
our luggage and places. We went, therefore, into a spacious room and
ordered breakfast, when the room was entered by a body of military men
of all sorts; but we were suffered to keep our ground till Mr. Boyd
came to inform us that we must all decamp!...
"He conducted us not to the barge, not to the wharf, but to the road
back to Brussels; telling us, in an accent of depression, that he
feared all was lost—that Bonaparte was advancing—that his point was
decidedly Brussels—and that the Duke of Wellington had sent orders
that all the magazines, the artillery, and the warlike stores of every
description, and all the wounded, the maimed, and the sick, should be
immediately removed to Antwerp. For this purpose he had issued
directions that every barge, every boat, should be seized for the use
of the army; and that everything of value should be conveyed away, the
hospitals emptied, and Brussels evacuated.
"If this intelligence filled us with the most fearful alarm, how much
more affrighting still was the sound of cannon which next assailed our
ears! The dread reverberation became louder and louder as we
proceeded....
"Yet, strange to relate! on re-entering the city, all seemed quiet and
tranquil as usual! and though it was in this imminent and immediate
danger of being invested, and perhaps pillaged, I saw no outward mark
of distress or disturbance, or even of hurry or curiosity.
"Having re-lodged us in the Rue d'Assault, Mr. Boyd tried to find some
land carriage for our removal. But not only every chaise had been
taken, and every diligence secured; the cabriolets, the calèches, nay,
the waggons and the carts, and every species of caravan, had been
seized for military service. And, after the utmost efforts he could
make, in every kind of way, he told us we must wait the chances of the
day, for that there was no possibility of escape from Brussels, either
by land or water....
"I was seated at my bureau and writing, when a loud 'hurrah!' reached
my ears from some distance, while the daughter of my host, a girl of
about eighteen, gently opening my door, said the fortune of the day
had suddenly turned, and that Bonaparte was taken prisoner.
"At the same time the 'hurrah!' came nearer. I flew to the window; my
host and hostess came also, crying, '_Bonaparte est pris! le voilà! le
voilà!_'
"I then saw, on a noble war-horse in full equipment, a general in the
splendid uniform of France; but visibly disarmed, and, to all
appearance, tied to his horse, or, at least, held on, so as to disable
him from making any effort to gallop it off, and surrounded, preceded,
and followed by a crew of roaring wretches, who seemed eager for the
moment when he should be lodged where they had orders to conduct him,
that they might unhorse, strip, pillage him, and divide the spoil.
"His high, feathered, glittering helmet he had pressed down as low as
he could on his forehead, and I could not discern his face; but I was
instantly certain he was not Bonaparte, on finding the whole commotion
produced by the rifling crew above-mentioned, which, though it might
be guided, probably, by some subaltern officer, who might have the
captive in charge, had left the field of battle at a moment when none
other could be spared, as all the attendant throng were evidently
amongst the refuse of the army followers.
"I was afterwards informed that this unfortunate general was the Count
Lobau....
"The delusion of victory vanished into a merely passing advantage, as
I gathered from the earnest researches into which it led me; and evil
only met all ensuing investigation; retreat and defeat were the words
in every mouth around me! The Prussians, it was asserted, were
completely vanquished on the 15th, and the English on the 16th, while
on the day just passed, the 17th, a day of continual fighting and
bloodshed, drawn battles on both sides left each party proclaiming
what neither party could prove—success.
"It was Sunday; but Church service was out of the question, though
never were prayers more frequent, more fervent. Form, indeed, they
could not have, nor union, while constantly expecting the enemy with
fire and sword at the gates. Who could enter a place of worship, at
the risk of making it a scene of slaughter? But who, also, in
circumstances so awful, could require the exhortation of a priest, or
the example of a congregation, to stimulate devotion? No! in those
fearful exigencies, where, in the full vigour of health, strength, and
life's freshest resources, we seem destined to abruptly quit this
mortal coil, we need no spur—all is spontaneous; and the soul is
unshackled.
"Not above a quarter of an hour had I been restored to my sole
occupation of solace, before I was again interrupted and startled; but
not as on the preceding occasion by riotous shouts; the sound was a
howl, violent, loud, affrighting, and issuing from many voices. I ran
to the window, and saw the _Marché aux Bois_ suddenly filling with a
populace, pouring in from all its avenues, and hurrying on rapidly,
and yet as if unconscious in what direction; while women with children
in their arms, or clinging to their clothes, ran screaming out of
doors; and cries, though not a word was ejaculated, filled the air,
and from every house, I saw windows closing, and shutters fastening;
all this, though long in writing, was presented to my eyes in a single
moment, and was followed in another by a burst into my apartment, to
announce that _the French were come_!
"I know not even who made this declaration; my head was out of the
window, and the person who made it scarcely entered the room and was
gone.
"How terrific was this moment! My perilous situation urged me to
instant flight; and, without waiting to speak to the people of the
house, I crammed my papers and money into a basket, and throwing on a
shawl and bonnet, I flew downstairs and out of doors.
"My intention was to go to the Boyds, to partake, as I had engaged,
their fate; but the crowd were all issuing from the way I must have
turned to have gained the Rue d'Assault, and I thought, therefore, I
might be safer with Madame de Maurville, who, also, not being English,
might be less obnoxious to the Bonapartists....
"What a dreadful day did I pass! dreadful in the midst of its glory!
for it was not during those operations that sent details partially to
our ears that we could judge of the positive state of affairs, or
build upon any permanency of success. Yet here I soon recovered from
all alarm for personal safety, and lost the horrible apprehension of
being in the midst of a city that was taken, sword in hand, by an
enemy....
"The _alerte_ which had produced this effect, I afterwards learnt,
though not till the next day, was utterly false; but whether it had
been produced by mistake or by deceit I never knew. The French,
indeed, were coming; but not triumphantly; they were prisoners,
surprised and taken suddenly, and brought in, being disarmed, by an
escort; and, as they were numerous, and their French uniform was
discernible from afar, the almost universal belief at Brussels that
Bonaparte was invincible, might perhaps, without any intended
deception, have raised the report that they were advancing as
conquerors.
"I attempt no description of this day, the grandeur of which was
unknown, or unbelieved, in Brussels till it had taken its flight, and
could only be named as time past."
The writer's pleasure at the success of the Allies was saddened by an
accident which happened to General d'Arblay, who, while employed in
raising a force of refugees at Trèves, had received a severe wound in
the calf of his leg from the kick of a restive horse. This misfortune
impaired still further a constitution already weakened. Being for the
time disabled for service, and having passed his sixtieth year, the
General found himself placed on the retired list, and obtained leave to
settle with his wife in England. When sent on a mission to Blucher, he
had been honoured by his master with the title of Comte, which, as being
conferred only _par une sorte d'usage de l'ancien régime_, and being
neither established by patent, nor connected with the ownership of an
estate, he never used after the occasion on which it was given. He died
at Bath on May 3, 1818.
Little remains to be told of the life of Madame d'Arblay. During her
residence at Bath she renewed her acquaintance with Mrs. Piozzi. We have
a long and entertaining account from her pen of an escape from drowning
which she met with while staying at Ilfracombe. But with this exception,
her last diaries and letters contain little of interest. Soon after the
death of her husband she removed to No. 11, Bolton Street, Piccadilly.
Her latter days she spent chiefly in retirement, seeing few persons but
her own relations, and a small circle of established friends. Among the
latter were Mrs. Locke and the poet Rogers, with the latter of whom she
had made acquaintance on her first return from France. She was
delighted, however, by a visit from Sir Walter Scott, who was brought to
her by Rogers. Sir Walter, in his Diary for November 18, 1826, thus
records the interview: "Introduced to Madame d'Arblay, the celebrated
authoress of 'Evelina' and 'Cecilia,' an elderly lady with no remains of
personal beauty, but with a simple and gentle manner, and pleasing
expression of countenance, and apparently quick feelings. She told me
she had wished to see two persons—myself, of course, being one, the
other George Canning. This was really a compliment to be pleased with—a
nice little handsome pat of butter made up by a neat-handed Phillis of a
dairy-maid, instead of the grease fit only for cart-wheels which one is
dosed with by the pound. I trust I shall see this lady again."
From the year 1828 to 1832, she occupied herself in compiling the
Memoirs of Dr. Burney. This book, published in her eightieth year, has
all the faults of her later style, in their most aggravated form. But
her friend Bishop Jebb, while gently hinting at these defects, could
honestly congratulate her on the merit of her work. "Much as we already
know of the last age, you have brought many scenes of it, not less
animated than new, graphically before our eyes; whilst I now seem
familiar with many departed worthies, who were not before known to me,
even so much as by name." Southey also wrote to her son: "'Evelina' did
not give me more pleasure, when I was a schoolboy, than these Memoirs
have given me now; and this is saying a great deal. Except Boswell's,
there is no other work in our language which carries us into such
society, and makes us fancy that we are acquainted with the persons to
whom we are there introduced."
In January, 1837, she lost the last prop of her old age. Alexander
d'Arblay, having taken Orders soon after his degree, became minister of
Ely Chapel in 1836, and was about to marry, when he was carried off by
an attack of influenza. His mother survived him nearly three years: she
had a severe illness, attended by spectral illusions, in November, 1839;
and died in London on January 6, 1840—a day which she had observed from
the beginning of the century in memory of the death of her sister
Susanna. She was buried at Walcot, near Bath, by the side of her husband
and their only child.
Except for the production of the "Memoirs," the last quarter of a
century in Madame d'Arblay's life was barren both of incident and
employment. The details of her experience during the preceding fifteen
years could not fail to interest us, if we had them related as she would
have told them in her prime. Especially, we should like to know
something more about that long detention in France, when chafing under
police restrictions, and fretting for news from home, her heart vibrated
to the continual echoes of cannon announcing Napoleon's victories. But
Fanny married, and growing elderly, was quite a different person from
the Fanny of St. Martin's Street and Chesington, of Streatham and Bath,
of Windsor and Kew. Her Diary proper came to a final stop with the death
of Mrs. Phillips in 1800. She will always be remembered as Frances
Burney of the eighteenth century. Deriving her inspiration in part from
Richardson, she heads the roll of those female novelists whose works
form a considerable part of English literature. The purity of her
writings first made the circulating library respectable. "We owe to
her," says Macaulay very justly, "not only 'Evelina,' 'Cecilia,' and
'Camilla,' but 'Mansfield Park,' and the 'Absentee.' Yet great as was
her influence on her successors,[125] it was exhausted before the
present century began. Indeed, it has been suggested, with some reason,
that the excessive sensibility of her heroines is answerable for a
reaction in Miss Edgeworth and Miss Austen; for the too great amount of
bright and cold good sense of the first; for the over-sobriety of
feeling of the second.[126] Fanny's genius for expressing character in
dialogue, aided by touches of description, placed her among the first
memoir-writers of that journalizing age. A little more power of
compression would have made her diaries equal to the best of Boswell's
sketches.
"The author herself," says Mr. Leslie Stephen, "with her insatiable
delight in compliments—certainly such as might well turn her head—her
quick observation and lively garrulity, her effusion of sentiment rather
lively than deep, but never insincere, her vehement prejudices corrected
by flashes of humour, is always amusing." We may assent to every word of
this sentence, and yet feel that it does its subject something less than
justice. We trust that our readers have found Fanny amusing; we trust
also that they have recognised in her the possession of some higher
qualities. If she was vain, her egotism was of the most innocent kind.
It was more harmless than Goldsmith's, for we cannot recall in her
utterances a single envious or jealous remark. Of how many
self-conscious authors can the like be said? The simple love of praise
which led her to entertain her acquaintance with what was said about
herself, has assisted to render her interesting to a wider circle. "Vain
glory," says Bacon quaintly, "helpeth to perpetuate a man's memory: like
unto varnish that makes ceilings not only shine, but last." If she had
strong prejudices, they were free from every taint of personal
malevolence. Her dislike of the Opposition resembled Johnson's professed
hatred of the Scotch, at which the doctor himself used to laugh. She
goes to the trial of Hastings, full of zeal for his cause, and spends
her time there chiefly in conversing with his prosecutors. And however
prejudiced on some points, she was far from narrow-minded on many
matters of controversy. Though brought up a strict Protestant, she
married a Roman Catholic. Though to the end of her days an attached
daughter of the English Church, she expresses unqualified esteem for the
piety of those very pronounced dissenters, Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld. The
sympathy between herself and her own family was at all times perfect.
There were no rivalries among them. "I am sure," she wrote modestly in
1800, "my dear father will not think I mean to parallel our works." She
was extremely pleased when Queen Charlotte declared a tale published by
her half-sister Sarah to be "very pretty." Her faithfulness to duty and
her friends was celebrated by her royal mistress in the saying that Miss
Burney was "true as gold." When she had cast in her lot with her
Chevalier, no isolation, no privation, no anxiety for the future could
make her repine. "I never forget," she wrote in her poverty, "Dr.
Johnson's words. When somebody said that a certain person had no turn
for economy, he answered, 'Sir, you might as well say that he has no
turn for honesty.'" Whatever cavils have been raised by Croker and one
or two like-minded detractors, no artifice or indirect dealing can be
laid to her charge, even in literary matters, in regard to which such
manœuvres are too often deemed excusable. We are not holding her up
as a pattern of elevated or extraordinary virtue. She was simply the
best representative of a worthy and amiable family who had been trained
in the school of Samuel Johnson. That type of character has passed away.
The rugged old dictator's political creed is unintelligible to the
present age; his devotion is taken for superstition or formalism; his
canons of criticism are obsolete. His disciples felt nothing of what was
stirring in the air. They were but little accessible to fresh ideas. The
cause of popular freedom, the Evangelical movement in religion, the
romantic spirit in poetry appealed to them with the smallest effect.
They were zealous for authority; they were not in the least
introspective; when they wanted a line or two of verse, they nearly
always went to Pope for it. The speculations, the problems of the modern
world were all unknown to them. They were far less inclined to embrace
new dogmas of faith or agnosticism than to observe old rules of action.
Yet when we read the annals of the Burneys—the accomplished, the genial,
self-respecting, conscientious, pious Burneys—may we not be pardoned for
thinking that there was a good deal, after all, in those antiquated
Johnsonian principles?
THE END.
----------------------------
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
-----
Footnote 123:
Moore's 'Life of Byron,' Letters 78, 80.
Footnote 124:
He had studied mathematics in Paris according to the analytical method
instead of the geometrical, which was at that time exclusively taught
at Cambridge.
Footnote 125:
Miss Austen took the title of 'Pride and Prejudice' from some words on
the last page of 'Cecilia.'
Footnote 126:
Introduction to 'Evelina' by Annie Raine Ellis.
-----
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Transcriber's Note
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer's have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original,
or, if in a footnote, to the original page, the resequenced note number
and the line with it.
19.7 "How you remind me of my father!['"/"'] Transposed.
33.34 being hooted at[.] Added.
70.31 as well acquainted with them as herself[.] Added.
78.6 her Smiths and her Branghtons!["/'] Replaced.
98.5 "[']Oh, sir!' cried I; Inserted.
99.2 to confound these outpouring[s] Added.
106.23 ['/"]Let him be tormented, Replaced.
106.25 'Evelina'!["] Added.
115.23 though far inferior[.] Added.
123.29 in Fanny's [l]iterary career. Restored.
124.54.5 died on the 30th of May 1840[.] Added.
129.22 a history of the Bristol milk-woman,['] Removed.
131.12 have encouraged me.['/"] Replaced.
139.13 was only six miles from Chesington[,/.] Replaced.
168.12 [']There is no need,' Added.
177.29 No, no; not come to that neither.['] Added.
190.22 Immediately below the Great Chambe[r]lain's Inserted.
Box
221.1 I am extremely obliged to Mr. Digby indeed.['] Added.
211.24 "[']No, ma'am!' was all I dared answer. Inserted.
231.26 'fine, lively, natural, independent Added.
characters.[']
242.23 ['/"]I thanked him; Replaced.
271.3 after seventy-three of accusation.['/"] Replaced.
272.10 [']for it is kind, Added.
End of Project Gutenberg's Fanny Burney and her Friends, by Fanny Burney
*** | in high quarters, if he suffered her to throw away a
competency without visible necessity, he was for putting off the evil
day of resignation as long as possible. It was therefore important that
friends whose approbation he valued should unite to make him understand
that the case, in their judgment, called for prompt determination. He
was much worked upon in the autumn by a letter from Horace Walpole to
Frances, in which the writer, with a touch of heartiness quite unusual
to him, lamented her confinement to a closet at Court, and asked whether
her talents were given to be buried in obscurity? About the same time,
he was warned by his daughter, Mrs. Francis, that Windham, her neighbour
in Norfolk, who had observed for himself the change in Fanny's
appearance, was meditating an attack on him as soon as they should meet
in town. The politician had already sounded Burney to little purpose;
'it is resolution,' he told Charlotte, 'not inclination, the Doctor
wants.' 'I will set the Literary Club upon him!' he cried. 'Miss Burney
has some very true friends there, and I am sure they will all eagerly
assist. We will present him an address.'
The general feeling infected James Boswell, though not very intimate
with the Burney family. In this same autumn, Boswell was on a visit to
the Dean of Windsor, who was also Bishop of Carlisle. Miss Burney met
him one morning at the choir-gate of St. George's Chapel:
"We saluted with mutual glee: his comic-serious face and manner have
lost nothing of their wonted singularity; nor yet have his mind and
language, as you will soon confess.
"'I am extremely glad to see you indeed,' he cried, 'but very sorry to
see you here. My dear ma'am, why do you stay?—it won't do, ma'am! you
must resign!—we can put up with it no longer. I told my good host the
Bishop so last night; we are all grown quite outrageous!' Whether I
laughed the most, or stared the most, I am at a loss to say; but I
hurried away, not to have such treasonable declarations overheard, for
we were surrounded by a multitude. He accompanied me, however, not
losing one moment in continuing his exhortations: 'If you do not quit,
ma'am, very soon, some violent measures, I assure you, will be taken.
We shall address Dr. Burney in a body; I am ready to make the harangue
myself. We shall fall upon him all at once.'
"I stopped him to inquire about Sir Joshua; he said he saw him very
often, and that his spirits were very good. I asked about Mr. Burke's
book. 'Oh,' cried he, 'it will come out next week: 'tis the first book
in the world, except my own, and that's coming out also very soon;
only I want your help.' 'My help?' 'Yes, madam; you must give me some
of your choice little notes of the Doctor's; we have seen him long
enough upon stilts; I want to show him in a new light. Grave Sam, and
great Sam, and solemn Sam, and learned Sam—all these he has appeared
over and over. Now I want to entwine a wreath of the graces across his
brow; I want to show him as gay Sam, agreeable Sam, pleasant Sam: so
you must help me with some of his beautiful billets to yourself.'"
Fanny evaded this request by declaring that she had not any stores at
hand; she could not, she afterwards said, consent to print private
letters addressed to herself. The self-satisfied biographer followed her
to the Queen's Lodge, continuing his importunity, and repeating his
exhortations to her to resign at once. At the entrance, he pulled out a
proof-sheet of the First Book in the world, and began to read from it a
letter of Dr. Johnson to himself. 'He read it,' says the Diary, 'in
strong imitation of the Doctor's manner, very well, and not caricature.
But Mrs. Schwellenberg was at her window, a crowd was gathering to stand
round the rails, and the King and Queen and Royal Family now approached
from the Terrace. I made rather a quick apology, and with a step as
quick as my now weakened limbs have left in my power, I hurried to my
apartment.'
By what representations Dr. Burney was brought to view his daughter's
condition in its true light we are not distinctly informed. We find,
however, that, before October ended, a memorial to the Queen, written by
Fanny in her father's name and her own, requesting permission for the
Robe-Keeper to resign, had been approved by the Doctor, who expressed
his desire that it should be presented at the first favourable
opportunity. Then came a pause: the invalid was taking bark, which for a
short time recruited her strength; and she cherished the hope of
obtaining a ship for her brother James before she left the Court. But
her hopes both for her brother and herself proved illusory. In December,
her loss of health became so notorious that no part of the house could
wholly avoid acknowledging it. 'Yet,' she writes, 'was the terrible
piquet the catastrophe of every evening, though frequent pains in my
side forced me, three and four times in a game, to creep to my own room
for hartshorn and for rest.' The remaining members of the household were
more considerate than the mistress of the card-table. The ladies had the
fellow-feeling of fellow-sufferers; even Mr. Turbulent frankly
counselled Miss Burney to retreat before it was too late. A general
opinion prevailed that she was falling into a decline, and that, at
best, she was reduced to a choice between her place and her life. "There
seemed now," she says, "no time to be lost; when I saw my dear father he
recommended to me to be speedy, and my mother was very kind in urgency
for immediate measures. I could not, however, summon courage to present
my memorial; my heart always failed me, from seeing the Queen's entire
freedom from such an expectation; for though I was frequently so ill in
her presence that I could hardly stand, I saw she concluded me, while
life remained, inevitably hers." Fanny's nervousness, in fact, had made
her less anxious to deliver her letter than her father was to have it
delivered, and some further persuasion from him was required before the
paper reached her Majesty's hands.
At length it was presented, and the result was exactly what the writer
had anticipated. The Schwellenberg stormed, of course: to resign was to
return to nothingness; to forfeit the protection of the Court was to
become an outcast; to lose the beatific vision of the Sovereign and his
consort was hardly less than to be excluded from heaven. The Queen
thought the memorial very modest and proper, but was surprised at its
contents. Indomitable herself, she could not understand how anyone else
could suffer from more than passing illness. She therefore proposed that
her sick attendant should have six weeks' leave of absence, which, with
change of air and scene, and the society of her family, the Locks and
the Cambridges, would ensure a perfect cure. This proposal was duly
communicated to Dr. Burney. The good man's answer arrived by return of
post. With much gratitude for the royal goodness, he declared, on
medical authority, that nothing short of an absolute retirement gave any
prospect of recovery. "A scene almost horrible ensued," says Miss
Burney, "when I told Cerbera the offer was declined. She was too much
enraged for disguise, and uttered the most furious expressions of
indignant contempt at our proceedings. I am sure she would gladly have
confined us both in the Bastille, had England such a misery, as a fit
place to bring us to ourselves, from a daring so outrageous against
imperial wishes."
The Queen herself betrayed a blank disappointment at Dr. Burney's
inflexibility, but neither exhibited displeasure nor raised any further
obstacle. Yet the prisoner's liberation was still at a distance. In
January, 1791, she was prostrated by an attack of some acute illness
which lasted through the two following months. On returning to her duty,
she found that search was being made for a suitable person to succeed
her. But the selection proved difficult, and her Majesty, of course,
could not be pressed. It was at length arranged that Miss Burney should
be set free soon after the celebration of the King's birthday in June.
This matter settled, her position grew easier. Her colleague not only
laid aside asperity of manner, but became even 'invariable in kindness.'
And Fanny now began to do the old lady more justice than she had ever
done before. She acknowledged, in short, that Cerbera's bark was worse
than her bite; that though selfish, harsh, and overbearing, she was not
unfriendly; that she was even extremely fond of her junior's society,
when the latter could force herself to appear gay and chatty. On such
occasions the morose German would melt, and tell the Queen: 'The Bernar
bin reely agribble.' 'Mrs. Schwellenberg, too,' adds the Diary, 'with
all her faults, is heart and soul devoted to her royal mistress, with
the truest faith and loyalty.' As for this mistress, she treated her
retiring servant with all her former confidence, clouded only by a
visible, though unavowed, regret at the prospect of their separation.
Thus the closing weeks of this life at Court were spent in comparative
tranquillity, though there were intervals of great weakness and
depression.
"On the opening of this month," says the Diary for June, "her Majesty
told me that the next day Mr. Hastings was to make his defence, and
warmly added, 'I would give the world you could go to it!'" There was no
resisting such an appeal, and accordingly, under date of June 2nd, we
read: "I went once more to Westminster Hall, which was more crowded than
on any day since the trial commenced, except the first. Peers,
commoners, and counsel, peeresses, commoneresses, and the numerous
indefinites, crowded every part, with a just and fair curiosity to hear
one day's defence, after seventy-three of accusation." Miss Burney heard
the accused read his vindication, and listened with an interest which
she knew would be shared by the King and Queen; she heard something also
about herself, which she did not communicate to their Majesties. She
attended to the story of Hastings when told by himself as she had never
attended to it before; her sympathy followed him when he expressed
disdain of his persecutors, when he arraigned the late Minister, Lord
North, of double-dealing, and the then Minister, Mr. Pitt, of cowardly
desertion. She shared his indignation when the Managers interrupted him;
she exulted when the Lords quelled the interruption by cheering the
speaker, and when Lord Kenyon, who presided in the place of the
Chancellor, said, 'Mr. Hastings, proceed.' She contrasted the fortitude
of the defendant, who for so many days had been silent under virulent
abuse, with the intemperate eagerness of his assailants, who could not
exercise the like self-control even for three brief hours. In short, she
felt as warm-hearted women always have felt, and as it is suspected that
even icy politicians, men of light and leading on their respective
sides, occasionally do feel in the present enlightened age. "The
conclusion of the defence," continues this excited partisan, "I heard
better, as Mr. Hastings spoke considerably louder from this time: the
spirit of indignation animated his manner, and gave strength to his
voice. You will have seen the chief parts of his discourse in the
newspapers; and you cannot, I think, but grow more and more his friend
as you peruse it. He called pathetically and solemnly for instant
judgement; but the Lords, after an adjournment, decided to hear his
defence by evidence, and in order, the next Session. How grievous such
continued delay to a man past sixty, and sighing for such a length of
time for redress from a prosecution as yet unparalleled in our annals!"
When it was over, Windham approached her, and 'in a tone of very deep
concern, and with a look that fully concurred in it,' said, 'Do I see
Miss Burney? Indeed,' he went on, 'I was going to make a speech not very
gallant.' 'But it is what I should like better,' cried the lady; 'for it
is kind, if you were going to say I look miserably ill, as that is but a
necessary consequence of feeling so, and miserably ill I have felt this
long time past.' She prevented more by going on to say how happy she was
that he had been absent from the Managers' Box, and had not joined in
the attempt made by his fellow-managers to disconcert Mr. Hastings.
'Indeed, I was kept in alarm to the very last moment; for at every
figure I saw start up just now—Mr. Fox, Mr. Burke, Mr. Grey—I concluded
yours would be the next.' 'You were prepared, then,' cried he with no
little malice, 'for a "voice issuing from a distant pew."' This
unexpected quotation from Cecilia "put me quite out," says Fanny,
"whereupon he seized his opportunity to put himself in. For, after a
little laugh at his victory, he very gravely, and even almost solemnly,
said, 'But there is another subject—always uppermost with me—which I
have not ventured to speak of to you; though to others you know not how
I have raved and raged! But I believe, I am sure, you know what I allude
to.' 'Twas impossible, thus challenged, to dissemble. 'Yes,' I answered;
'I own, I believe I understand you; and, indeed, I should be tempted to
say further—if you would forget it when heard, and make no implications—
that, from what has come round to me from different quarters, I hold
myself to be very much obliged to you....' When we came home I was
immediately summoned to her Majesty, to whom I gave a full and fair
account of all I had heard of the defence; and it drew tears from her
expressive eyes, as I repeated Mr. Hastings' own words, upon the
hardship and injustice of the treatment he had sustained." At night, the
reporter was called upon to repeat her narrative to the King, to whom
she was equally faithful, "sparing nothing of what had dropped from the
persecuted defendant relative to the Ministers of the Crown."
Two days afterwards came the King's birthday, and Miss Burney was well
enough to enjoy a lively scene—the last that she was to witness at
Court:
"At dinner Mrs. Schwellenberg presided, attired magnificently. Miss
Goldsworthy, Mrs. Stainforth, Messrs. de Luc and Stanhope dined with
us; and, while we were still eating fruit, the Duke of Clarence
entered. He was just risen from the King's table, and waiting for his
equipage to go home and prepare for the ball. To give you an idea of
the energy of his Royal Highness's language, I ought to set apart a
general objection to writing, or rather intimating, certain forcible
words, and beg leave to show you, in genuine colours, a royal sailor.
We all rose, of course, upon his entrance, and the two gentlemen
placed themselves behind their chairs, while the footmen left the
room; but he ordered us all to sit down, and called the men back to
hand about some wine. He was in exceeding high spirits, and in the
utmost good humour. He placed himself at the head of the table, next
Mrs. Schwellenberg, and looked remarkably well, gay, and full of sport
and mischief, yet clever withal as well as comical. 'Well, this is the
first day I have ever dined with the King at St. James's on his
birthday. Pray, have you all drunk his Majesty's health?' 'No, your
Roy'l Highness: your Roy'l Highness might make dem do dat,' said Mrs.
Schwellenberg. 'O, by —— will I! Here, you (to the footman); bring
champagne! I'll drink the King's health again, if I die for it! Yet, I
have done pretty well already: so has the King, I promise you! I
believe his Majesty was never taken such good care of before. We have
kept his spirits up, I promise you; we have enabled him to go through
his fatigues: and I should have done more still, but for the ball and
Mary—I have promised to dance with Mary!' Princess Mary made her first
appearance at Court to-day: she looked most interesting and
unaffectedly lovely: she is a sweet creature, and perhaps, in point of
beauty, the first of this truly beautiful race, of which Princess Mary
may be called _pendant_ to the Prince of Wales. Champagne being now
brought for the Duke, he ordered it all round. When it came to me, I
whispered to Westerhaults to carry it on: the Duke slapped his hands
violently on the table, and called out, 'O, by ——, you shall drink
it!' There was no resisting this. We all stood up, and the Duke
sonorously gave the royal toast."
The indefatigable diarist, says Thackeray, continues for pages reporting
H.R.H.'s conversation, and indicating, with a humour not unworthy of the
clever little author of 'Evelina,' the increasing excitement of the
young Sailor Prince, who drank more and more champagne, stopped old Mrs.
Schwellenberg's remonstrances by kissing her hand, and telling her to
shut her potato-trap, and who did not keep 'sober for Mary.' Mary had to
find another partner that night, for the royal William Henry could not
keep his legs. When the Princess afterwards told Miss Burney of her
brother's condition at the ball, and Fanny accounted for it by relating
what had passed at the attendants' dinner-table, she found that she had
been anticipated by the Duke himself. 'Oh!' cried the Princess; 'he told
me of it himself the next morning, and said: "You may think how far I
was gone, for I kissed the Schwellenberg's hand!"' The lady saluted was
duly sensible of the honour paid her. 'Dat Prince Villiam,' she observed
to her junior—'oders de Duke of Clarence—bin raelly ver merry—oders vat
you call tipsy.'
Mademoiselle Jacobi,[106] Fanny's destined successor, arrived in the
first days of July, and the prison door was now thrown open. Miss Burney
imagined that, as the day of her discharge approached, the Queen's
manner to her became rather less cordial, and betokened an inward
feeling that the invalided servant ought, at every hazard, to have
remained with her employer. This, we believe, is a common opinion among
mistresses in all ranks of life, when called upon to surrender a trusted
dependent. The King, with that weakness which the better-half always
despises, was disposed to be much more indulgent. As if to compensate
for his consort's vexation, he showed himself increasingly courteous and
kind at every meeting, making opportunities to talk over Boswell's book,
which had recently appeared, and listening to Fanny's anecdotes of
Johnson with the utmost complacency and interest. The Princesses did not
conceal their sorrow at the impending change. 'Indeed,' says the Diary,
'the most flattering marks of attention meet me from all quarters. Mrs.
Schwellenberg has been forced to town by ill-health; she was very
friendly, even affectionate, in going!' And before the hour of parting
arrived, the light cloud passed away from her Majesty's face. It has
been asked, Why should she have grieved at losing an attendant, who, as
the Queen used to complain, could never tie the bow of her royal
necklace without tying her royal hair in with it? But, in Miss Burney,
Queen Charlotte was losing much more than an unskilful tire-woman, or a
nervous reader, who, as we know on the same unimpeachable authority,
'had the misfortune of reading rather low.' She was losing one whom she
declared to be 'true as gold,' and who had a much larger share of mind
than commonly fell to the official lot; a familiar friend who was as far
as possible from being a learned lady, and yet capable of entertaining
her mistress with clever and stimulating talk such as her Majesty loved.
No retiring pension had been asked for in the petition for leave to
resign, and when the subject was mentioned by the Queen, the petitioner
hastened to disavow all claim and expectation of that kind. She found,
however, that the question of what the occasion demanded had been
already considered and decided. Though the term of service had been
short, the character of the servant, and the notorious failure of her
health, made it imperative that she should receive some provision. The
Queen therefore announced her intention of continuing to her second
Robe-Keeper in retirement one-half of the annual salary which had been
paid to her in office. 'It is but her due,' said the King. 'She has
given up five years of her pen.'[107] Two days after this matter was
settled, Miss Burney took leave of the Royal Family. Emotional as one of
her own heroines, she could not control her feelings in bidding farewell
to the Queen, and was unable even to look at the King when he came to
say 'Good-bye.' She quitted the Court on July 7, 1791, having been a
member of the royal house-hold for five years all but ten days. Burke
recalled the satisfaction with which he had hailed her appointment; and,
owning that he had never been more mistaken in his life, observed that
the story of those five years would have furnished Johnson with another
vivid illustration for his 'Vanity of Human Wishes.'
-----
Footnote 102:
"His coffin was re-opened at the request of the Jessamy Bride, that a
lock might be cut from his hair. It was in Mrs. Gwynn's possession
when she died, after nearly seventy years."—Forster's "Goldsmith."
Footnote 103:
James, seventh Earl of Salisbury, was advanced in August, 1789, to the
title of Marquis.
Footnote 104:
In 1785, Mr. Pitt introduced an increase in the tax paid on
men-servants, when they were kept by bachelors.
Footnote 105:
Diary, vol. ii., p. 581.
Footnote 106:
Macaulay asserts that, shortly after her release, Miss Burney "visited
her old dungeon, and found her successor already far on the way to the
grave, and kept to strict duty, from morning till midnight, with a
sprained ankle, and a nervous fever." This is a strange misstatement.
Mademoiselle Jacobi had leave of absence to nurse her sprain: it was
not "in the old dungeon" that Miss Burney saw her on the occasion
referred to, but in a small room at Brompton, where she was sitting
with her leg on bolsters, and unable to put her foot to the ground.
Fanny, in January, 1792, took a turn of duty at St. James's, by the
Queen's request, because "Mademoiselle Jacobi was still lame." Diary,
vol. iii., pp. 385-87. However, we read afterwards that, towards the
end of 1797, Mademoiselle Jacobi "retired to Germany, ill and
dissatisfied with everything in England." She, as well as Miss Burney,
received a pension.
Footnote 107:
Memoirs, iii. 118 n.
-----
CHAPTER XI.
Chelsea Hospital—Tour to Devonshire—Visit to Bath—Reminiscences—The
Duchess of Devonshire—Return Home—Literary Pursuits resumed—Attempts
at Tragedy—Social Engagements—Death of Sir Joshua Reynolds—A Public
Breakfast at Mrs. Montagu's—Mrs. Hastings—Mr. Boswell—Visit to Mrs.
Crewe—The Burke Family—Meeting with Edmund Burke—Burke and the French
Revolution—Charles Fox—Lord Loughborough—Mr. Erskine—His Egotism—The
French Refugees in England—Bury St. Edmunds—Madame de Genlis—The Duke
de Liancourt—The Settlement at Mickleham—Count de Narbonne—The
Chevalier d'Arblay—Visit of Miss Burney to Norfolk—Death of Mr.
Francis—Return to London.
Miss Burney returned to her father, who, with his wife and his youngest
daughter Sarah, was then living in Chelsea Hospital. The family at this
time occupied rooms on the ground-floor, which not long afterwards were
exchanged for others in the top story. After resting three weeks at
home, she set out on a tour to the southwest of England, under the care
of her friend Mrs. Ord. The travellers journeyed by easy stages to
Sidmouth, taking Stonehenge on their way, and stopping at the principal
places which had been visited by the Court in the summer of 1789. Having
spent eight or nine days on the coast of South Devon, they turned
northwards, and proceeded by the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey to Bath.
That most famous of English watering-places was greatly altered from
what it had been when Fanny passed the season there with the Thrales
eleven years before. The circumference, she tells us, had trebled,
though the new buildings were scattered, and most of them unfinished.
"The hills are built up and down, and the vales so stocked with streets
and houses, that, in some places, from the ground-floor on one side a
street, you cross over to the attic of your opposite neighbour. It looks
a town of hills, and a hill of towns." But the palaces of white stone
rising up on every hand interested her less than the old haunts with
which she was familiar—the North Parade, where she had lived with Mrs.
Thrale; the houses in the Circus, where she had visited Mrs. Montagu and
Mrs. Cholmley; the Belvedere, where she had talked with Mrs. Byron and
Lord Mulgrave. Nearly a month slipped away in reviving old
recollections, and in making some new acquaintances to replace the many
that had disappeared. The retired official was much flattered by an
introduction to the celebrated Duchess of Devonshire, and amused herself
with the thought that her first visit after leaving the Queen should be
paid to the greatest lady of the Opposition. Another month was divided
between Mickleham and Norbury Park, and by the middle of October Miss
Burney was again at Chelsea.
'We shall expect you here to dinner by four,' wrote her father. 'The
great grubbery will be in nice order for you, as well as the little;
both have lately had many accessions of new books. The ink is good, good
pens in plenty, and the most pleasant and smooth paper in the world!
'"Come, Rosalind, oh, come and see
What quires are in store for thee!"'
Are we wrong in thinking that these words express Dr. Burney's anxiety
to see his daughter once more working as she had not worked since the
last sheet of 'Cecilia' was corrected for the press? In the succeeding
pages of the Diary we find more than one passage where the good man's
eagerness for some new fruit of her talents is plainly confessed.
Friends had united to persuade him that he had but to recall her from
the royal dressing-room to her study, and fresh laurels, with abundant
riches, would surely and speedily be hers. He was naturally impatient
for some fulfilment of these prophecies. Rosalind appeared: she wore out
the quills, and covered the quires; but nothing came of her activity.
Her health was now fairly restored, and, in the first ardour of
composition, she felt that she could employ two pens almost incessantly.
Unhappily, her industry was devoted to a mistaken purpose. She had
brought with her from Windsor the rough drafts of two tragedies, and
without pausing to correct these, she occupied herself in writing a
third. A less hopeful enterprise could not have been conceived. She had
before her eyes the warning example of Mr. Crisp's failure. Had this old
friend been living, he would doubtless have been wiser for his pupil
than he was for himself. It is certain that Nature had not designed the
Siddons for tragedy more distinctly than she intended Frances Burney for
comedy. With the exception of one or two powerful scenes, such as the
death of Harrel, Fanny's chief successes had been won in the department
of humorous writing. It was her misfortune that she had at this moment
no | 6,616 |
PLAYLIST: April 2019
in Playlists
As of Easter 2019, we're changing up the way we update our new music playlists. Rather than doing a re-cap at the end of every month, we'll now be doing so weekly – or attempting to do so, at least. They'll still be archived by month, but hopefully they'll be refreshed once a week until each month is done, then a new one created.
So, April 2019 has been yet another great month for new music so far. Record Store Day 2019 has deluged many music fans with a whole heap of awesome exclusive tracks, many of which can also be discovered via streaming services.
More than four years after her last new music, and having faced several trying periods in her personal life, Tahliah Debrett Barnett – FKA Twigs – released a new track 'Cellophane'. Two Door Cinema Club also announced their fourth album False Alarm, while The Black Keys revealed their first LP in half a decade, out in June.
Kevin Parker kept anticipation running high ahead of a fourth Tame Impala album with a new track 'Borderline'. Following the amicable split last year of cult British indie heroes Wild Beasts, their frontman Hayden Thorpe has revealed his debut solo album Diviner. And, at long last, there's a suggestion of new music from super-in-demand Canadian producer Kaytranada, who dropped a new track called 'Dysfunctional'. In our playlist, there's over 50 other new tracks by a<|fim_middle|>gs
Ed Biggs
PLAYLIST: July 2019
All the best new music released during July 2019, including…
A Beginner's Guide to Stereolab
A very short beginner's guide to Stereolab.
PLAYLIST: June 2019
A playlist of the best new music to be released… | whole galaxy of other great up-and-coming artists.
For the older fans of the whole indie-dance thing among us, Hot Chip have announced their seventh album A Bath Full Of Ecstasy, and American trio Yeasayer announced their fifth record Erotic Reruns – both bands released brand new singles to mark the respective roll-outs. Excitingly, although there's not a release date for it yet, Beck detailed a 14th studio album Hyperspace with a new track titled 'Saw Lightning'.
Beck's 'Saw Lightning'
Check out our April 2019 playlist of new music over at Spotify, or scroll below!
Tags: April 2019, Ed Big | 144 |
WATCH: Trump Embraces Emotional Mother Of Slain NYPD Officer At Memorial Event
By<|fim_middle|> night," added Maher. "She was an incredible person and she is missed by this family."
New York Police Department (NYPD) | Amanda Prestigiacomo
On Tuesday, President Donald Trump embraced the mother of a slain New York officer in a particularly touching moment during the National Peace Officers' Memorial Service held in Washington, D.C.
On July 5, 2017, NYPD officer Miosotis Familia, a 43-year-old mother of three, was ambushed in her cop car while serving on the job and shot to death by a cop-hating madman. Familia's mother, children, and NYPD partner were spotted by the president at the event and pulled on stage for a special honoring of their lost loved one.
Familia's 90-year-old mother was overcome with emotion as Trump embraced her with a warm hug. "Hi, sweetheart … so beautiful," he told her, giving her a kiss on the forehand.
"Thank you, thank you," the woman responded, unable to hold back tears.
Holding hands, Trump then led her to the stage. "So I promised I told her I wouldn't tell you she's 90 years old," joked Trump, "but you know what, she is really something."
"She's looking down and she's so proud of you," the president continued, turning to Familia's children.
"We will be thinking of your incredible daughter," he continued, kissing the slain officer's mother on the hand. "We will be thinking of all the heroes we lost and we will thank God for the men and women of law enforcement."
Earlier in his remarks, Trump called for the death penalty for cop-killers, reports The New York Post. "[Familia] was ambushed by a man for the simple reason that she was a member of the police department," he told the D.C. crowd. "That was the simple reason."
Familia's partner, Vincent Maher, also gave remarks in honor of Familia. "This is a woman who got injured a while ago and volunteered to come back to patrol to one of the roughest places in New York City," he explained. "She volunteered to leave a cushy job to come back to patrol."
"I had the honor of being with her that | 442 |
'I just shot and killed my wife': Man turns himself in
A Colerain Township man called the police on himself Monday stating had killed his wife on Appletree Court.
'I just shot and killed my wife': Man turns himself in A Colerain Township man called the police on himself Monday stating had killed his wife on Appletree Court. Check out this story on cincinnati.com: http://cin.ci/26oEbfJ
Pat Brennan and Cameron Knight, Cincinnati Published 12:15 p.m. ET April 25, 2016 | Updated 7:38 p.m.<|fim_middle|>911 call: "Somebody just threw a firebomb"
Police: 'Firebomb' thrown into a Springdale home Sunday
Cara Owsley
Reporter Sherry Coolidge on Thursday's shooting | ET April 26, 2016
Warning: Contains content some might find upsetting.
Jeffrey Hawkins, 57(Photo: Provided, Hamilton County Sheriff's Office)
"I just shot and killed my wife," Jeffrey Hawkins said before spelling his name for the dispatcher.
In the recording of the 911 call, he said shot her multiple times with a .40 caliber Sig Sauer handgun.
"It's on the sink. I'm not a threat to anybody," he said. "I'm a former police officer. I'm not sure what happened."
The 57-year-old Hawkins was arraigned Tuesday at the Hamilton County Justice Center where he's also being held. His bond was set at $3 million.
The dispatcher asked Hawkins what happened as police rushed to scene around 11 a.m. where they later found the woman — 59-year-old Jo Ann Hawkins — dead on the floor..
"She took all the money out of our bank account on my birthday on Saturday and you guys were out here a couple times. I don't know," he said. "She was gone, and when I came home she was here. She just wouldn't talk to me and she just kept saying 'Talk to my lawyer.' I don't know. It just happened."
His voice broke.
"God, forgive me. God," he said.
Hawkins was surrendered to police without incident, Colerain police spokesman Jim Love said. He confirmed that Hawkins was not a police officer for any agencies in the region.
The identity of the victim has not been released. Love said the process of contacting her family was ongoing.
Neighbors huddled together, consoled each other and offered information to police while the crime scene was being investigated. More than a dozen neighbors from nearby homes gathered near the outside.
A woman was found shot to death in a Colerain Township home late Monday morning. The Enquirer/Patrick Brennan
Read or Share this story: http://cin.ci/26oEbfJ
Enquirer Breaking News
VIDEO: NTSB updates on Madeira plane crash investigation
Sam Greene
From the scene: One dead in Madeira plane crash
Megan Vogel
Standoff leaves one Clermont Sheriff's deputy dead
| 463 |
We'll cut straight to the good stuff, because that's want you really want, right?
If you want to persuade someone,what you have you have to let them know what you have for them.
But don't over complicate it. Start with a simple overview of your product – what does it do and who is it for?
Talk about the insane benefits that your reader will get when they take the action you want them to take.
Can you help them imagine or realise how much better life will be with your product?
Now we can unpack the rest of your product.
But there's a secret about how to do it right.
If you don't, your prospective customer will feel nervous. And nervous people don't buy into what you're selling.
So here's how to list your features, in the most fascinating way.
Bullet points can be your secret weapon to persuasive copy – they make a point and are easy to skim.
But there's a science to compelling bullet points!
Don't skimp on the details, and add a benefit to every feature.
More than 15 hours one-on-one consultation, with complete transcripts so you don't forget anything.
And don't forget a compelling teaser!
The three mistakes that female entrepreneurs always make, and the quickest way to fix them.
Whether or not your reader knows who you are, it's critical that you establish you're trustworthy and credible. And that you really know what you're talking about – an expert in the topic you're referring to.
<|fim_middle|> here on Facebook, Twitter or LinkedIn, or ask a question now (and we'll give you some more ideas that will help transform the way you communicate with your ideal customer).
For more content tips that work ridiculously well, head to masters who inspire us, like Copyblogger.
TV: Much ado about everything?
When the SABC released its rate card for the last six months of this year with substantially higher than expected projections, it caused a stir throughout the industry where the topic became an increasingly contentious issue among industry commentators and more notably, advertisers.
The Journal of Marketing provides cutting-edge reporting on all issues pertaining to the marketing professional, spanning media, branding, design, advertising and strategy to encompass the 360° approach that today's marketers must adopt in order to generate ROI for their clients.
Recession; downturn: two simple words which are powerful enough to cause widespread panic in the marketing industry. And rightfully so, as customer needs invariably do change in a downturn. The million dollar question then is how do marketing professionals adjust their strategies accordingly?
Lesson: Most companies don't even know what their competitive advantage is.
…have you ever thought how TV campaigns drive online search usage?
Amid the chaos that Eskom's power cuts and load shedding has caused among advertisers in conventional mediums such as TV and even radio to a smaller degree, the stability of mobile branding has never been highlighted so profoundly.
Lesson: Stability is a major plus.
If marketing, sales, brand and media managers and directors alike could have insight into how major retailers market their brand, perhaps the media environment would be a simpler place.
This article provides marketing insights including brand measurement, the strength of strategies and the secret to success.
After four decades, the Pick 'n Pay brand, (now Pick n Pay or PnP) has evolved. Using logos such as Shell, Coca-Cola and Mercedes as a benchmark, the transformation of PnP's brandmark was undertaken with incessant research in order to contemporize its appeal and provoke positive change. To read full article, click here.
The mind races with possibilities.
Customer Service Is Not Marketing..But It Should be!
The biggest mistake a brand or company can make on social media is not responding *properly* to comments and complaints on their page.
Consider how your brand is being perceived by your response?
You can manage the feedback that is given and use the opportunity to resolve the issue and gain important insight into what's not working in your business.
Connect with Click Culture on Twitter here, or become a fan on Facebook here. | This is our all-time favourite.
The famous call to action.
Here you need to tell your reader exactly what you want them to do.
And if you do, they'll do it.
And if you want to supercharge your call to action, you can add a sense of urgency.
Feeling inspired, about how simple this content thing really is?
Tell us over | 74 |
MBBS - Bachelor of Medicine & Bachelor of Surgery
UG - Electives
PG Medical Diploma
Fellowship in Geriatric Medicine
IQAC - KMC Mangalore
Directives from UGC
Student Grievances Cell
Letter from DC - Covid19
MCI Compliance
a. Dean & MS
b. Teaching & Non-Teaching Staff
c. Sanctioned Int<|fim_middle|>ina Kannada districts through Outreach Health Clinics operated by the department, Primary Health Centres (PHCs) and Community Health Centres (CHCs).
University of Alabama at Birmingham – USA
University of Arizona – USA
National Institute of Health & Family Welfare – India
St. Johns Research Institute – India
Monash University, Sunway Campus – Malaysia
ICRA Management Consulting Services Limited – India.
Karnataka State Health System Resource Centre (KSHSRC) – India.
Indian Institute of Public Health, Gandhinagar- India.
Karnataka State AIDS Prevention Society (KSAPS) - India
Karnataka Health Promotion Trust – India
Achutha Menon Centre for Health Sciences Studies, Sree Chitra Tirunal Institute of Medical Sciences & Technology - India
About the area of study
Community Medicine (Preventive and Social medicine) is a branch of medicine that deals with the preventive, promotive, curative and rehabilitative aspects of the community
In contrast to clinician who treats the disease, community physician identifies the cause of disease and disability and implements large-scale solutions in the community. This is a rapidly expanding discipline of medicine encroaching itself upon different aspects of health namely public health genetics, non-communicable disease epidemiology, vaccinology, disaster management, accidentology, mental health, occupational health etc. Community physicians have made important contribution globally over the centuries in elimination & eradication of major diseases. In addition to these, the discipline has made significant contribution in development of policies and programs at the national and the international level based on the extensive research carried out in the field of diseases of public health importance.
KMC Experience
Why KMC Mangalore?
UG Electives | ake
d. List of students admitted
e. Research Publication
f. CME Confrences
g. Awards & Achievements
h. Affiliating University
i. Results of all Examinations
j. Status of Recognition
k. Clinical Material in the Hospital
Curriculum - Time Table
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Kasturba Medical College of Mangalore (KMC)
Department of Community Medicine
About Department of Anatomy
I authorize MAHE Manipal to contact me with updates & notifications via Email, SMS & WhatsApp . This will override registry on DND / NDNC.
The department of community medicine at KMC Mangalore provides high quality training in Community Medicine to undergraduate medical students and undergraduate & post graduate students of allied health science specialties. In addition to quality teaching, the department is also involved in various research projects funded by national and international funding agencies. The department pursues several collaborations with renowned international universities for conducting research activities.
The department was instrumental in encouraging undergraduate medical students for ICMR-STS projects for inculcating research skills among them and it is a matter of honour to know that KMC Mangalore has highest number of ICMR- STS projects in the country. The department is also involved in providing promotive, preventive and curative health services to the community for the health and welfare of the people, through different tiers of health care delivery systems.
All the faculty members are well versed in designing and conduct of various epidemiological studies. We also offer consultation to other department's research activities including PG Dissertation- Methodology and Data analysis. The department has collaboration with many national and international agencies and Universities for various Health Projects.
Research and publication by students will help in pursuing higher studies
Incorporating research into medical undergraduate curriculum during 4th semester clinical postings in the department helps inculcate research skills
Collaboration with national and international funding agencies for research activities
Active involvement in various projects under the aegis of Ministry of Health and Family Welfare (Government of India), ICMR etc.
Consistent high ranking in terms of research publication in the renowned national and international journals
Research collaborations with University of Alabama at Birmingham, USA and University of Arizona, USA
Health care services to the community in Daksh | 461 |
Steve Justice Studio
Art - Design
Bio and Exhibitions
A portrait of the Artist as a Young Children
Title: A portrait of the Artist as a Young Children
Material: oil on canvas
Size: 30×120
Year: 1989 SOLD
I am a deeply superficial person. – Andy Warhol
As a lad in Pittsburgh, I studied art at the Carnegie Institute under Joseph C. Fitzpatrick, a hardy Irishman who called girls lasses, boys lads and Guinness angel piss. Okay, I made the Guinness part up, but two of the three are true. He was Andy Warhol's former instructor, for 15 minutes or 15 years, whichever is longer. In spite of all the excitement, distractions and circus atmosphere that defined the school town of Oakland in the late 1960s, Mr. Fitzpatrick provided fundamental training in drawing and painting that was as solid as the cinder block wall of the Ryan Home in which I lived, and he<|fim_middle|> me that an artist doesn't need shock to create awe.
Everybody knew who Warhol was. We'd read the papers and seen his work around town and at the Carnegie International, but Fitzpatrick's message
was: Yes, we may paint like a pop artist, but No, we may not paint like a pop artist yet. He wanted us to learn how to walk before we could crawl. Make it until you fake it. Talk it like we walk it. And don't take no wooden pickles.
Copyright 2021 Steve Justice Studio | Site design handcrafted by Station Seven | taught | 1 |
Great War at Sea: Zeppelins
Great War at Sea
For a brief period, Ferdinand Graf Zeppelin's giant gas-filled airships ruled the world's skies. Though conceived as passenger craft, during the First World War rigid and semi-rigid airships performed long-range scouting and bombing missions.
Great War at Sea: Zeppelins includes die-cut-and-mounted playing pieces, but these are special, oversized ones: 2/3-inch by 1-and-1/3-inch large pieces depicting famous airships of Germany, Great Britain, the United States, Italy, Austria-Hungary and France. These are used with the new tactical and operational rules provided; unlike the standard game rules that treat all airships the same, with the Zeppel<|fim_middle|> airship SR-1 along with the many rigid airships built at war's end. Italy built a large number of semi-rigid airships (with a solid keel rather than a complete frame as with a true zeppelin) and these are also included.
The United States Navy gets its Shenandoah and Los Angeles, and the United States Army the big semi-rigid airship Roma. The French Dixmude, a former German zeppelin, is here as are Austria-Hungary's small contingent.
New airship-centered scenarios, or modifications of current scenarios, are included for many of the Great War at Sea series games: Mediterranean, Jutland, U.S. Navy Plan Gold, U.S. Navy Plan Red and Dreadnoughts.
Fabricante: Avalanche Press Fecha de lanzamiento: 2007
Marca Avalanche Press
Referencia APZEPP
Distant Suns (Castellano)
Passe Trappe Grand Modèle
Red Hot Silly Peppers
The City of Kings: Ancient Allies Side...
Escape Kids: Expedición a la jungla
Spyrium
Help Arrives!
Terraforming Mars (Inglés)
Hive (Inglés)
Ankh: Gods of Egypt – Pantheon (Inglés)
Lords of Xidit (Inglés)
Folklore Promo Colossal Dark Oak
Last Friday: Revised Edition (Inglés)
Crónicas del Crimen
Stockpile (Inglés) | ins module, each airship class has its own range and endurance qualities.
Every airship that played an important role in the First World War is present, both German Navy and German Army machines that scouted for the High Seas Fleet and attacked naval targets. The ultra-long-range "Africa Ship" L59 is present, along with the big, modern L100 class canceled by the war's end.
The Royal Navy maintained a large fleet of airships, and the British get the Italian-built semi-rigid | 104 |
Here's a rundown of the recent inductees to the Scottish Rugby Hall of Fame. We think you will agree that there ain't a controversial decision amongst them, which makes a change for this neck of the woods.
Pre World War 1 – David Bedell-Siv<|fim_middle|>993, 1997 and 2009 (and part of the Lions coaching team in 2005), he rejoined Scotland as head coach in 1999. He is currently performance director with Bath.
Special award – Ned Haig, the butcher from the Borders, whose brainchild was rugby 7s. In 1883 Ned's club, Melrose was reportedly suffering a shortage of cash and during a club meeting, Ned – who was then captain – suggested putting on a rugby tournament as part of a fund-raising sports day. There wasn't enough time to play several full XV rugby games in one afternoon, so teams were pared down to seven men, with match times reduced to 15 minutes. Ned Haig's inspiration is now played worldwide and has been instrumental in seeing rugby return to the Olympic Games.
Special award – Bill McLaren – the peerless Voice of Rugby, who for 50 years provided the most vivid and wonderful TV commentaries on the game. Bill was synonymous with rugby across the globe. His overwhelming enthusiasm was matched only by his vast knowledge, incredible attention to detail and consummate impartiality. Awarded the MBE, OBE and CBE, the Freedom of Scottish Rugby in 2000 and the first non-international player to be inducted into the IRB's Hall of Fame in 2001, Bill switched off his microphone for the last time in 2002. After a long illness he passed away peacefully in January 2010 but the affection with which he was held was underlined at a moving tribute night at Murrayfield in March.
Special award – Jim Telfer – Traversing touchline for both his country and the British Lions, James William Telfer has made an immense contribution to rugby at all levels for the last half century. As a player he represented Scotland and the Lions, most memorably scoring the winning try for Scotland at Colombes in Paris in 1969. A teacher by profession, he was a natural leader whose authoritative air commanded respect. In coaching he was a pivotal figure in both Scotland's 1984 and 1990 Grand Slams and coached Scotland to their final Five Nations Championship triumph in 1999. He was head coach of the Lions in New Zealand in 1993 but, perhaps his finest hour occurred on the 1997 tour to South Africa, where as assistant coach to his cohort McGeechan, he cajoled a series-winning performance from the Lions pack.
Special award – Gordon Brown – Legendary Scotland second-row and a fully-paid up component of the Mean Machine; a triple Lion and fierce competitor; a ruthless assassin on the pitch and a true gentleman off the field of play – Gordon Lamont Brown, or, as most knew him, Broon frae Troon. Born into sport, the son of a Scotland goalkeeper, nephew of footballers and younger brother of Scotland lock P C Brown, Gordon made his debut in a win against South Africa in 1969 aged just 22. Immovable in the scrum yet dynamic in the loose, Gordon went on to cement his place in Scotland's front five of the early 1970s – the mean machine that featured Ian McLauchlan, Frank Laidlaw, Sandy Carmichael and Alastair McHarg. In all he won 30 caps for Scotland and a further eight Test appearances for the British Lions between 1971 and 1977. The same qualities that he brought to the rugby field, he also displayed in a heroic battle against non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, sadly passing away in 2001, aged just 53. | right (Cambridge University, West of Scotland, Edinburgh University) – Debuting against Wales in 1900, David Bedell-Sivright went on to win 22 Scotland caps. A pioneer of the wing forward role, he was regarded as the hardest man to play for Scotland and is the only Scot ever to play in three Triple Crown winning sides (1901, 1903 and 1907). He was the only player to tour with both the 1903 and 1904 British Isles sides (captaining the 1904 Australasian tour, aged 23) and also captained Scotland. After he retired from international rugby he became the 1909 Scottish heavyweight amateur boxing champion. A surgeon by profession, he died on active service at Gallipoli.
World War 1-World War 2 – GPS Macpherson – Phil Macpherson, a centre/stand-off from Oxford University and Edinburgh Academicals won 26 caps for Scotland. Making his international debut against France in 1922, he played in Scotland's matches that season and went on to score his first try for his country against Wales in 1924. In 1925, he captained Scotland to their first Grand Slam. Rated the most brilliant attacking centre of his era bar none, he played his last game against England in 1932.
1945-1959 – Ken Scotland, a full-back/stand-off from Heriot's, Cambridge University, Leicester and Aberdeenshire, won 32 caps for his country. Both his debut and his last international came against France at Colombes, the former in 1957 and the latter in 1965. He was a world-class and gifted individual, who set new standards for full-back play, pioneering the counter-attack role, truly a player ahead of his time. One of the stars of the 1959 Lions tour to Australasia, scoring 12 tries, he also represented Scotland at cricket.
1960s – Sandy Carmichael (West of Scotland) – he was one of the speediest, most versatile props ever to pull on an international jersey. Making his debut against Ireland in 1967, he went on to earn 50 caps, a record for a Scottish forward at the time, and was notably involved in two heroic try-saving tackles in the victory over France in 1969. He played for the British Lions on the 1971 tour to New Zealand and 1974 tour of South Africa. One of the bravest and fairest players to grace the game, his last international was against Ireland in 1978.
1970s – Andy Irvine (Heriot's) – Andy Irvine MBE earned 51 caps – 15 as captain and scored 273 points for Scotland. One of rugby's greatest running full-backs made his international debut against New Zealand in 1972. With blistering pace and attacking from deep, he could turn off either foot and produce a thrilling display from nothing. Scotland's first real superstar player, he also took part in television's Superstars competition in 1978 and 1982, finishing respectively third and second in the British final. Selected for the British Lions against South Africa (1974 and 1980) and New Zealand (1977), he scored a record five tries in a single game against King Country during the trip to the Land of the Long White Cloud.
1980s – Finlay Calder (Stewart's-Melville FP) – Uncompromising in both attack and defence, Finlay Calder made his Scotland debut against France in 1986. The openside flanker went on to win 34 caps, his final international occurring against New Zealand in 1991. Gritty, determined and a ruthless tackler, alongside Derek White and John Jeffrey, he made up of Scotland's greatest back-rows. He was the first Scot to captain the British Lions since Mike Campbell-Lamerton in 1966, the first winning captain since Willie-John McBride in 1974 and the only 20th century captain to lead the team to a series victory after losing the opening Test.
1990s – Gavin Hastings (Watsonians, Cambridge University and London Scottish) – Gavin Hastings was chosen by a public vote from the following candidates – Scott Hastings, David Sole, Gary Armstrong, Bryan Redpath and Alan Tait. Gavin made his international debut against France in 1986, an OBE, he won 61 caps for his country. A world-class full-back he was Scotland's leading points scorer of his generation, was pivotal in Tony Stanger's match-winning try in the 1990 Grand Slam decider and in 1995, scored the try and conversion that gave Scotland their first victory in Paris since 1969. Solid in defence in attack and superb with the boot, he captained both Scotland and the British Lions, taking his final bow at the 1995 World Cup in South Africa.
The 2000s – Ian McGeechan (Headingley) – Sir Ian Robert McGeechan OBE made his international debut as a player against New Zealand in 1972. At centre/stand-off he was capped 32 times for Scotland and toured with the British Lions in 1974 and 1977, playing in all eight Tests. He played his last international in 1979 and soon moved into coaching, becoming assistant Scotland coach in 1986. Promoted to coach in 1988 his team won a Grand Slam victory in the Five Nations Championship in 1990. British Lions coach in 1989, 1 | 1,258 |
SIKKA-Art-Fair-2018-Features-Saudi-House-by-Culture-Focused-Tamashee
SIKKA Art Fair 2018 Features 'Saudi House' by Culture-Focused Tamashee
The 'Saudi House' promotes cultural cooperation and collaboration between the UAE and the KSA in line with the directives of His Highness Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan
Dubai, United Arab Emirates, 19 March 2018: SIKKA Art Fair 2018, a flagship event of Dubai Art Season and the first annual initiative of its kind focused on supporting and showcasing Saudi, Emirati, and GCC based artists, features the 'Saudi House' by Culture-Focused Tamashee during its eighth edition. SIKKA Art Fair is held under the patronage of Her Highness Sheikha Latifa bint Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Vice Chairman of Dubai Culture, and runs from 17th to 26th March 2018 at Al Fahidi Historical Neighbourhood.
In a direct translation of the directives issued by His Highness Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan, President of the UAE, to collaborate with the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in many fields including culture, the 'Saudi House' at SIKKA Art Fair is hosting a<|fim_middle|> code is valid from 17th to 26th March 2018 for 'now' and 'later' bookings across all car types excluding GO, UNCHR and BOX, with a maximum discount of AED 20 per ride. Valet parking will also be provided at the Al Fahidi Historical Neighbourhood on a first-come, first-served basis. For more travel information, visitors are advised to check www.rta.ae.
SIKKA Art Fair complements the city-wide activation of cultural events that will take place during the fifth edition of Dubai Art Season, which will run throughout March and April 2018 and feature events such as the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature, Art Dubai, DIFC Art Nights and the Middle East Film & Comic Con, among hundreds of other initiatives.
For more information on Dubai Culture, kindly visit:
Web: www.dubaiculture.gov.ae
Facebook: www.facebook.com/DubaiCultureArtsAuthority
Twitter: @DubaiCulture
YouTube: www.youtube.com/user/DubaiCulture
Instagram: @dubaiculture
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#SIKKA18
Last Updated on 4/2/2018 10:34 AM | variety of exhibitions and activities that showcase the talent of over 20 Saudi artists under one roof. The house features Tamashee, a collaborative initiative for emerging artists in the fields of calligraphy, pottery, Islamic art and photography, as well an exhibition of works produced by Saudi artists who were selected as part of the SIKKA open call.
The house will include a 'Majlis area' showcasing the work of Sara Maiman; 'Photography Room' by Khlood Alkhaldi, Moath Alofi and Abdulrahman Aldgelbi; an 'Asiri/Al Qatt Room' by Ibraheem Alalmai and Nouf Binshaieg; the 'Embroidery/Stitching Room' by Mashail Faqeeh and Nojoud Alsudairi; 'Calligraphy & Graffitti Room' by Ayman Alhafith, Maha Al-Ghanmi and Maryam Abushal; and Aeysha Enani; there are also two rooms dedicated to portraiture — the 'Abstract Portrait Room' by Mudi Albednah, Sara Alshobaili and the 'Egal Room' by Mohanna Tayeb.
Selected SIKKA artists including Fatima Al Dawood, Fatima Al Mohsen and Najoud Al Mushawih have created a mixed art display at the 'Saudi House', while Muruj Alshatri, Butool Aljefri and Aeysha Enani are showing their contemporary Islamic clay structures and canvases in the 'Miniature & Geometric Art Room'.
The 'Saudi House' has been brought to life from end to end, also featuring a 'Courtyard Live Public Activation' also known as Al Huwyy; where Tamashee designed stencils for colouring in, Nouf BinShaieg is working live around the courtyard and attractive external walls painted by Maryam Abushal and Butool Aljefri. Other attractions include a hallway that provides an introduction to the plants and trees of the Arabian Peninsula, and a 'Hide Room' showcasing 11 artists work on camel leather.
This year, Dubai Culture has made it easier than ever before for the public to reach SIKKA Art Fair, reflecting the Authority's commitment to involving all segments of society in the fair. Visitors can reach SIKKA via metro, car, bus shuttle, Careem, the S'hail app or even by abra for as little as AED 1 per trip. Dubai Culture is providing complimentary shuttle buses from the Al Seef by Meraas multi-storey car park to SIKKA, and has also worked with Careem to provide visitors with a special 15% discount on two rides when they book a taxi using the code SIKKA2018. The | 574 |
Saint Bernard of Clairvaux a Theory of Art Form<|fim_middle|>: How the National Society Shaped Our Modern Idea of Christ
>> See all our Art-Religious books
2003 - Singing Sparrow
2001 - Bernard of Clairvaux's Broad Impact on Medieval Culture | ed From His Writings
Author: Hufgard, M.
One of the first studies to address positively the controversial subject of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux and the influence he exercised on the arts of his time. Until now Bernard's aestheticism in conjunction with his monastic commitment has been neither precisely defined nor successfully understood. The principal sources for this study - a formulation of a Bernardine theory of art - are the works of Saint Bernard: his letters, treatises and sermons.
". . . Any one of the principles [in which Hufgard anchors Bernard's theory of art] is sure to stimulate lively debate. Indeed, there may be the making of a revolution here. . . . succeeds in uttering what may be the definitive voice in the debate on Bernard's place in the history of art, . . . has made explicit a philosophy and theory of art that may well reshape contemporary thought and criticism. . . . Hufgard's SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX may be a sleeping giant." - Donald Bernard Cozzens
"[P]lates from the two manuscripts provide valuable illustrations of the book's argument." - Marsha L. Dutton
"One striking feature of this work [is] the felicity of expression and depth of meaning with which Hufgard has summarized each chapter. . . . effectively clears up much of the misunderstanding of his Apologia by those who considered its pronouncements hostile to art." - Miriam Lynch
". . . a work which will have a long and pervasive influence on religious and art historical studies . . ." - James R. Johnson
Other Art-Religious Books
1991 - Biblical Canon in Comparative Perspective Scripture in Context IV
2006 - Lord is My Shepherd (psalm 23)
2011 - Use of Italian Renaissance Art in Victorian Religious Education | 380 |
Historic Architecture
Exterior Envelope
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Evaluation of Historic Places Eligibility
HABS and HAER Documentation
Historic Preservation Plans
Infrastructure Assessments
Historic Structure Reports
Click here for the HDC holiday greeting
Woodward Opera House Project Receives OHPO Award!
Each year, the State Historic Preservation Office recognizes achievements in historic preservation by presenting awards in Public Education and Awareness, and Preservation Merit. The Woodward Opera House project received a Preservation Merit award at a lunch reception on October 19, 2019, at the Ohio History Center in Columbus. Completion of this rehabilitation project was 25 years in the making, starting with the creation of two non-profit groups to own and operate the property, many grants and donations that enabled work to the first floor and exterior to commence, and finally the creation of a for-profit partnership and successful utilization of the historic tax credits that enabled completion of work to the upper floor theaters. In January of this year, the theatre saw its first performance in nearly 100 years. And an unexpected visitor, Susan Woodward, great-granddaughter of the man who originally opened<|fim_middle|> (11) HABS/HAER Documentation (4) Hardlines Design Company (28) Heritage Tourism (3) Historic Building Inventory (1) Historic Building Restoration (10) Historic Preservation (14) Historic Preservation Specialists (6) Historic Renovation (9) Historic Theatres (2) Lincoln Theatre (2) National Register Nomination (1) Ohio Department of Transportation (1) Projects (3) Stewart Elementary School (2) Sustainable Design (2) Theatre Projects (3) Uncategorized (16) What's New (9)
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Hardlines Design Company maintains an experienced team of professionals with deep expertise in all phases of architecture, planning and cultural resources management. We use the highest professional standards and the latest technology to create solutions that are functional, cost-effective and memorable.
© 2020 Hardlines Design Company. All Rights Reserved. | the venue, attended. Click here to read about all of 2019's award winners.
The Woodward Opera House project team: Jim Demsky (Korda Engineering), Sandy Crow (Woodward Development Corporation ), Pat Crow (Woodward Development Corporation), Patrick Crow, Jr. (Woodward Development Corporation), Jay Panzer (Facility Strategies Ltd.), Fred Hall (Modern Builders), Richard Mavis (Mayor of Mount Vernon), Steve Hall (Modern Builders), Burt Logan (Ohio State Historic Preservation Officer), and Charissa Durst (Hardlines Design Company)
American Cultural Resources Association (ACRA) Conference Has Interesting Side Trip Sites
The 2019 ACRA national conference took place October 24-26 in Spokane, Washington, in the historic Davenport Hotel. HDC resident Charissa Durst attended as a board member, chair of the awards committee, and served s one of the panelists who spoke about the first 25 years of the organization. Don Durst flew to Spokane after the final event on the 26th, and the two went sightseeing on Sunday before flying back to Columbus on Monday.
Left: The grand lobby of the historic Davenport Hotel in Spokane.
Right: The grand Doges Room was removed from the original building and reinstalled in the hotel's addition.
Left: One of the multiple wooden train trestles that dot northern Idaho.
Right: The Dog Bark Park Inn in Cottonwood, Idaho. Don and Charissa did not spend the night but picked up a wooden beagle sculpture by the artist who started the bed and breakfast in 1997.
Addition to Belmont Correctional Institution Paper Packing Plant Completed
HDC was commissioned by the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction to design an addition to an existing toilet paper packing plant operated by Ohio Prison Industries (OPI). The facility takes gigantic rolls of toilet paper and turns them into individual rolls of paper that are then sold to other prisons throughout Ohio and other states. OPI has been extremely successful and after receiving contracts with additional states, needed to expand its warehouse space so it could move materials out of the main plant to make room for another machine to assemble the individual rolls. At OPI's request, the expansion was made as large as possible within the confines of the existing loading dock and proximity to the perimeter road and wall. The floor structure spanned an underground electrical vault, and the loading dock was reconfigured to be more efficient. The addition features a tall space with a shorter connector to the main building, which allowed clerestory windows to light the space and did not touch the existing roof, which was being replaced under a separate contract.
Left: Interior view showing clerestory windows high on the wall. Right: Interior of the loading dock that is now under roof.
Rehabilitation of the Gardner Homestead Moved Forward
After completing the master plan to convert the house into offices for the Flint Cemetery, HDC is now preparing bidding documents for Phase 1, which will replace the asphalt shingle roof, reinforce the attic structure, and demolish the modern rear porch addition. Since the Cemetery board opted to retain the two existing garage buildings, the new asphalt shingle roof on the main house will match that of the existing support buildings. News of the rehabilitation was also featured in Worthington News, the local weekly newspaper.
Southeast corner of the Gardner house.
Ziti Starts Taking Puppy Agility Classes!
With her energy level, it is painfully obvious that Ziti needs a job. As a result, Don Durst enrolled her in a puppy agility class with ARF (Agility for Rally and Fun) that meets Wednesday evenings in Gahanna. Ziti does OK on the basic fast and slow heel around the room (she'd rather sniff the floor), and she does very good on coming when called. She's not so great at the exercises designed to strengthen her core muscles, such as walking backwards, sitting up to beg (she'd rather stand), and the equivalent of a doggie push up: a series of sit, down and stand commands one after another. Ziti, however, is happiest when using the actual apparatus: leaping on the balance board, walking across elevated beams, jumping through tires and running through tunnels.
Don gets Ziti ready to run through the tunnel.
Ziti has also taken to going on outings to Prairie Oaks Metro Park, especially on a sunny day.
Left: Ziti now walks elevated logs with ease — good training for the agility course! Right: Ziti photobombs a landscape shot at Prairie Oaks Metro Park that Don was in the process of setting up.
← Fall 2019
Researching Historic Buildings with Sanborn Maps
Categories Select Category Archaeology Surveys (4) Architecture (11) Architecture Firms (4) Beagles (17) Building Preservation (7) Cultural Resource Management (1) Cultural Resources Management | 996 |
Future entrepreneurs visit WIT before National Student Enterprise<|fim_middle|> and Molly O'Brien (13) are representing Tipperary in the Junior section of the Student Enterprise Competition, a competition that nationally involves over 20,000 students.
The girls devised, wrote, designed and published a small book on wellbeing for teenage girls that looks to promote positivity and counteract over use of technology. There are sections on mindfulness, yoga, exercise, recipes, crafting and self-esteem.
The girls really appreciated the opportunity to meet with Eugene and Aisling and learn about what it takes to set up a successful small business. Future entrepreneurs in the making and the very best of luck to the girls in the finals. | Finals
Manager of the Enterprise Ireland New Frontiers Programme Dr Eugene Crehan shows the young entrepreneurs current New Frontiers participants during a tour of ArcLabs
Four enterprising teens got to learn about what it takes to set up a successful business on a visit to ArcLabs, WIT's research and innovation centre
Four young teenagers from Presentation Convent Secondary School, Clonmel, Co Tipperary visited ArcLabs on WIT's West Campus to meet with Dr Eugene Crehan who runs the Enterprise Ireland New Frontiers programme for entrepreneurs at WIT's research and innovation hub, and ArcLabs manager Dr Aisling O'Neill in advance of the National Student Enterprise finals being held at Croke Park, Dublin on Friday, 3 May.
The girls - AnnieMae Walsh (13), Ada Hennessey (13), Hazel Brennan (14) | 179 |
Today I'm a little late in showing you the results of last weekend's party with the Affectionately Yours suite for Bec & Ange's party. Here are the sample cards I made for the party.
I had options of Crumb Cake, Mint Macaron or Watermelon Wonder as the card bases. All the paper is from the Affectionately Yours<|fim_middle|> up this week! I will pop a welcome up for Ange once she's signed up. | Designer Series Paper. I have then layered with a piece of Whisper White cardstock, embossed with the two different embossing folders you get in the Floral Affections embossing folders set. Next I have created a little banner using Flirty Flamingo cardstock & matching Flirty Flamingo Rouched Ribbon. I have stamped with Dapper Denim ink, using the Love & Affection stamp set.
Here are the cards made by the ladies who attended the party. I also had the Affectionately Yours Washi Tape set, Basic Rhinestones & Basic Pearls available for the girls to jazz up their cards!
And I'm very happy to announce that the lovely Bec decided to get the kit on the day, with Ange set to sign | 155 |
Stress rupture testing (1)
Weldability testing
Fitness for service testing (1)
Chemical degradation
Polymer degradation
Environmental cracking (1)
Buckling
Fitness-for-service assessment (1)
Wrought nickel-based superalloys (1)
Molybdenum alloys
Niobium alloys
Tantalum alloys
Tungsten alloys (1)
Diffusion welding (1)
Explosion welding (1)
Braze welding
Butt welding
Weld strength (1)
Shear strength (1)
ASM Technical Books (29)
Stress Rupture Failures
Book: Failure Investigation of Boiler Tubes A Comprehensive Approach
DOI: 10.31399/asm.tb.fibtca.t52430149
Boiler tubes operating at high temperatures under significant pressure are vulnerable to stress rupture failures. This chapter examines the cause, effect, and appearance of such failures. It discusses the conditions and mechanisms that either lead to or are associated with stress rupture, including overheating, high-temperature creep, graphitization, and dissimilar metal welds. It explains how to determine which mechanisms are in play by interpreting fracture patterns and microstructural details. It also describes the investigation of several carbon and low-alloy steel tubes that failed due to stress rupture.
Fire-Side Corrosion
Fossil fuels produce many byproducts that, if not fully combusted, put boiler tubes at risk. Fuel ash, chemical residues, and process heat pose the greatest threat and are the primary contributors to fireside corrosion. This chapter covers various types of fireside corrosion such as waterwall, fuel ash, and hot corrosion, acid dew-point or cold-end corrosion, and polythionic acid corrosion. It also addresses stress corrosion cracking and includes relevant case studies.
Fire-Side Erosion
Combustion byproducts such as soot, ash, and abrasive particulates can inflict significant damage to boiler tubes through the cumulative effect of erosion. This chapter examines the types of erosion that occur on the fire side of boiler components and the associated causes. It discusses the erosive effect of blowing soot, steam, and fly ash as well as coal particle impingement and falling slag. It also includes several case studies.
Boiler tubes subjected to cyclic or fluctuating loads over extended periods of time are prone to fatigue failure. Fatigue can occur at relatively low stresses and is implicated in almost 80% of the tube failures in firetube boilers. This chapter covers the most common forms of boiler tube fatigue, including mechanical or vibrational fatigue, corrosion fatigue, thermal fatigue, and creep-fatigue interaction. It discusses the causes, characteristics, and impacts of each type and provides several case studies.
Operation-Related Failures
This chapter examines boiler tube failures attributed to operation-related causes. It discusses failures due to rapid start-ups, excessive load swing, excessive heat inputs, poor water chemistry control, and water-treatment methods.
Introduction to Boiler Technology
Boilers are engineered systems designed to convert the chemical energy in fuel into heat to generate hot water or steam. This chapter describes boiler applications and types, including firetube boilers, watertube boilers, electric<|fim_middle|> of components. It begins with a review of creep curves, explaining how they are plotted and what they reveal about the operating history, damage mechanisms, and structural integrity of the test sample. In the sections that follow, it discusses the effects of stress and temperature on creep rate, the difference between diffusional and dislocation creep, and the use of time-temperature-stress parameters for data extrapolation. It explains how to deal with time dependent deformation in design, how to estimate cumulative damage under changing conditions, and how to assess the effect of multiaxial stress based on uniaxial test data. It also includes information on rupture ductility, creep fracture, and creep-crack growth and their effect on component life and performance. | boilers, packaged boilers, fluidized bed combustion boilers, oil- and gas-fired boilers, waste heat boilers, and black liquor recovery boilers. It also describes the operation and working principle of utility or power plant boilers, covering conventional subcritical and advanced supercritical types.
An Overview of the Functioning of a Thermal Power Plant
Coal-based thermal power plants play a major role in the welfare of many nations and the overall global economy. This chapter describes the basic equipment requirements and operating principles of thermal power plants, particularly subcritical, supercritical, and ultra-supercritical types.
Metallurgy of Steels and Related Boiler Tube Materials
This chapter describes the metallurgy, composition, and properties of steels and other alloys. It provides information on the atomic structure of metals, the nature of alloy phases, and the mechanisms involved in phase transformations, including time-temperature effects and the role of diffusion, nucleation, and growth. It also discusses alloying, heat treating, and defect formation and briefly covers condenser tube materials.
Materials for Boiler Tubes
Boilers are often classified based on the maximum operating temperature and pressure for which they are designed. Classifications, in ascending order, are subcritical, supercritical, ultra-supercritical, and to advanced ultra-supercritical. At each higher operating point comes greater efficiency, as well as greater demand on construction materials. This chapter discusses the primary requirements for boiler tube materials, including oxidation and corrosion resistance, fatigue strength, thermal conductivity, and the ability to resist creep and rupture. It also provides information on various steels and alloys, covering cost, engineering specifications, and ease of use.
Tools and Techniques for Material Characterization of Boiler Tubes
This chapter describes some of the most effective tools for investigating boiler tube failures, including scanning electron microscopy, optical emission spectroscopy, atomic absorption spectroscopy, x-ray fluorescence spectroscopy, x-ray diffraction, and x-ray photoelectron spectroscopy. It explains how the tools work and what they reveal. It also covers the topic of image analysis and its application in the measurement of grain size, phase/volume fraction, delta ferrite and retained austenite, inclusion rating, depth of carburization/decarburization, scale thickness, pearlite banding, microhardness, and hardness profiles. The chapter concludes with a brief discussion on the effect of scaling and deposition and how to measure it.
Introduction to Damage Mechanisms with Case Studies
This chapter provides an outline of the failure modes and mechanisms associated with most boiler tube failures in coal-fired power plants. Primary categories include stress rupture failures, water-side corrosion, fire-side corrosion, fire-side erosion, fatigue, operation failures, and insufficient quality control.
Water-Side Corrosion Failures
This chapter discusses the effects of corrosion on boiler tube surfaces exposed to water and steam. It describes the process of corrosion, the formation of scale, and the oxides of iron from which it forms. It addresses the primary types of corrosion found in boiler environments, including general corrosion, under-deposit corrosion, microbially induced corrosion, flow-accelerated corrosion, stress-assisted corrosion, erosion-corrosion, cavitation, oxygen pitting, stress-corrosion cracking, and caustic embrittlement. The discussion is supported by several illustrations and relevant case studies.
Failures Due to Lack of Quality Control or Improper Quality Control
Boiler tube failures associated with material defects are often the result of poor quality control, whether in primary production, on-site fabrication, storage and handling, or installation. This chapter examines quality-related failures stemming from compositional and structural defects, forming and welding defects, design defects, improper cleaning methods, and ineffective maintenance. It also includes case studies and illustrations.
Damage Mechanisms References
This chapter lists all of the references cited in the chapters on damage mechanisms.
Role of Water Chemistry in Boiler Tube Failure
Water chemistry is a factor in nearly all boiler tube failures. It contributes to the formation of scale, biofilms, and sludge, determines deposition rates, and drives the corrosion process. This chapter explains how water chemistry is managed in boilers and describes the effect of impurities and feedwater parameters on high-pressure boiler components. It discusses deposition and scaling, types of corrosion, and carryover, a condition that occurs when steam becomes contaminated with droplets of boiler water. The chapter also covers water treatment procedures, including filtration, chlorination, ion exchange, demineralization, reverse osmosis, caustic and chelant treatment, oxygen scavenging, and colloidal, carbonate, phosphate, and sodium aluminate conditioning.
Remaining Life Assessment of Boiler Tubes
The power generating industry has become proficient at predicting how long a component will last under a given set of operating conditions. This chapter explains how such predictions are made in the case of boiler tubes. It identifies critical damage mechanisms, progressive failure pathways, and relevant test and measurement procedures. It describes life assessment methods based on hardness, wall thickness, scale formation, microstructure, and creep. It also includes a case study on the determination of the residual life of a secondary superheater tube.
Failure Investigation of Boiler Tubes: A Comprehensive Approach
By Paresh Haribhakti, P.B. Joshi, Rajendra Kumar
DOI: 10.31399/asm.tb.fibtca.9781627082532
Fracture Mechanics and Service Fitness of Welds
Book: Weld Integrity and Performance
DOI: 10.31399/asm.tb.wip.t65930163
Depending on the operating environment and the nature of the applied loading, a structure can fail by a number of different modes, including brittle fracture, ductile fracture, plastic collapse, fatigue, creep, corrosion, and buckling. These failure modes can be broken down into the categories of fracture, fatigue, environmental cracking, and high-temperature creep. This article discusses each of these categories, as well as the benefits of a fitness-for-service approach.
Toughness
Book: Damage Mechanisms and Life Assessment of High-Temperature Components
DOI: 10.31399/asm.tb.dmlahtc.t60490021
The toughness of a material is its ability to absorb energy in the form of plastic deformation without fracturing. It is thus a measure of both strength and ductility. This chapter describes the fracture and toughness characteristics of metals and their effect on component lifetime and failure. It begins with a review of the ductile-to-brittle transition behavior of steel and the different ways to measure transition temperature. It then explains how to predict fracture loads using linear-elastic fracture mechanics and how toughness is affected by temperature and strain rate as well as grain size, inclusion content, and impurities. It also presents the theory and use of elastic-plastic fracture mechanics and discusses the causes, effects, and control of temper embrittlement in various types of steel.
This chapter provides a detailed overview of the creep behavior of metals and how to account for it when determining the remaining service life | 1,447 |
Island Cup
Battered Vineyard Team Makes Game Bid for Win
Friday, November 20, 1953 - 11:40am
The game with Nantucket on Saturday turned out to be one of the roughest that the Martha's Vineyard footballers have encountered. Judging by the number of injuries suffered by the Island boys, it was the roughest, with the principal Vineyard players seemingly one by one being removed from the game as the advantage irrevocably turned toward the Nantucketers, who finally defeated their visitors 33 to 20.
Coach Kelley's men performed during the first half of the game with what has become their traditional good form, playing in swift pace and hard fought fashion. When the Nantucket team took the opening kickoff and under the leadership of the combination of George Luce, Nate Thurston and Jimmy Day, travelled fifty seven yards for a touchdown, the Vineyard team came right back at their hosts. John McBride, picking up a fumbled kick on his own ten, ran the ball to his forty-five.
The Vineyard drive, however, came to an end on the Nantucket thirty-one when the Nantucketers, holding their ground, took the ball on downs. With the ball in their possession once more the hosts, with one successful pass after another, headed again for pay dirt. This second score was capped by the extra point made good by Duce. The score for Nantucket was 13, for the Vineyard, nothing.
Then the Tide Turned
But the tide then turned, when the Vineyard's John Morris took N<|fim_middle|> was good for the extra point. And affairs were all tied up once more, at 20 to 20.
Reduced drastically in strength in the final period, the Vineyard team was hard put defensively as the Nantucketers bulldozed their way through the Vineyard line for another score, accompanied by the extra point, giving the lead back to the hosts with a score of 27 to 20.
In the final minutes of the game, taking that ball on the Vineyard thirty-five, where a punt by McBride was downed, the Nantucketers in three plays landed once more over the goal line, the last score of the game, much to the disappointment of the more than eighty Vineyard fans who had flown to Nantucket to witness the final game of the Vineyard football schedule.
Coach Kelley stated that he was pleased with his boys, all of them playing to the best of their ability. "If it wasn't for the injuries to the key players, I honestly feel we would have won the game," he maintained.
Island Cup + Football
Football Debut Is Eagerly Awaited
The debut of the first Vineyard football team, under the guidance of Coaches John Kelley, Daniel McCarthy and Stanley Whitman, will take place tomorrow afternoon on the newly laid-out field at t
The game with Nantucket on Saturday turned out to be one of the roughest that the Martha's Vineyard footballers have encountered.
Vineyard Wins Moral Victory in Holiday Game
For the Vineyard footballers, the outcome of yesterday's game with Nantucket in a scoreless tie was a moral victory.
Nantucket All the Way
Having lost only one game out of six this season, the Nantucket High School football team came to Veterans Memorial Park Saturday and added still another victory to its record by defeating the Re
Regional High School
Football Team Too Slow in Warm-Up
The Regional High School football team went down to its fourth defeat of the season Saturday in a game with Nantucket at War Veterans' Memorial Park in Vineyard Haven. | antucket's kickoff on his own fifteen and travelled eighty-five spectacular yards for a score, a feat made possible by some mighty nice blocking by his teammates. The try for the conversion of the extra point failed, and the score was 13 to 6, the Vineyard trailing.
The Island boys were not through though. A little while later they got the ball again after Nantucket lost it on downs and put on the pressure again from their own forty. The pressure continued until Leigh Carroll plummeted over right guard from the Nantucket two to a touchdown. Morris scored the extra point on an end run. Thus, the game was all tied up at 13 to 13 in the second quarter.
During the remainder of the play in the first half, the Vineyard's Morris strained a stomach muscle that was to keep him out of play for the rest of the game.
The loss of Morris, however, did not stifle the Vineyard spirit, for in the third period they recovered a Nantucket fumble on their own thirty-five. Carroll took the ball to the forty, hitting through center, and McBride, on a delayed buck over left guard, left the Nantucketers behind as he bolted sixty yards for a third Vineyard touchdown. Hearn's pass to John Downs was completed and rang out the extra point. The Vineyard was out in front 20 to 13.
But the third period proved to be the casualty period so far as the Vineyard was concerned. Hearn dislocated a thumb. Steve Parker had his nose broken and was taken to the Nantucket Hospital. Don Amaral received a whopper of a charlie horse. Herb Combra and Carroll suffered badly bruised knees. And later McBride landed in the twisted ankle department.
Nantucketers Came Back
Trailing, the Nantucketers came back with force and with small yardage gains made their way to the Vineyard nine. A Thurston pass to Topham was good for a score, and Duce's plunge across the line | 424 |
I love making crêpes and waffles for my family. My children help to prepare the batter and join in with the cooking. Today you can make crêpes from different flours like buckwheat or rye, and enclosing a myriad of savory and sweet fill<|fim_middle|>˚F). Attach the bowl to the mixer fitted with the whisk attachment. Beat egg white mixture on high speed until it holds stiff (but not dry) peaks. Continue beating until mixture is fluffy and cooled, about 6 minutes. Switch to the paddle attachment. With the mixer on medium low speed, add the butter several tablespoons of butter at a time, beating well after each addition. Beat in melted chocolate and espresso. Beat on lowest speed to eliminate any air bubbles, about 2 minutes. Stir with a rubber spatula until frosting is smooth.
Assembling the Gâteau, place first crepe on a plate. Spread a thin layer of meringue evenly across the cake. Lay second crepe on top. Top with about one teaspoon of the plum jam. Repeat frosting process until all but one crepe is left. Place the last crepe on a separate plate. Evenly distribute remaining 2 teaspoons of sugar. Caramelize the sugar with a small handheld kitchen torch. Place the crêpe on top of cake and let cool. Once the caramelized sugar has cooled, dust with coco powder and garnish with few slices of ripe plum. Cool cake in the refrigerator to let cream harden.
Happy Mother's Day My Dear Ladies!
Happy Mother's Day Yelena. Your crepe gateau looks incredible! I've yet to make one but your gorgeous photos are tempting. It sounds like you had a lovely holiday.
P.S. Love your portfolio and photos!
Your photos and recipes are magnigicent!!! Love your site. I am your new fan!! Nice to have met you on Foodbuzz!!
Beautiful! I didn't know you have a degree in culinary art. Your food is fabulous!
Hope you had a great Mother's Day! This crepes gateau is gorgeous, and I love you cover photo as well!
This gateau looks great. And I love the meringue filling idea!
Your cover photo is amazing!! I love your colors. The lighting is beautiful too. The blue next to the deep reds is breathtaking!! | ings. Batters can be made a day ahead and kept in a container in the refrigerator until needed. This Crêpes Gâteau with Plum Jam and Chocolate Meringue Cream has a rich and chocolaty flavor (the cream alone, makes it a dream) and a little sourness of plums makes perfect combination of flavors. It rolls breakfast and dessert, my two favorite meals, into one.
Check out the cover for my portfolio. I like to hear your opinions.
To make the batter for the crêpes, put the flour, sugar, and salt in a bowl. Add the eggs, mix well with a whisk, then stir in a generous 1/3 cup milk to make a smooth batter. Gradually stir in the rest of the milk and the cream. Let the batter rest in a warm place for about an hour. When you are ready to cook the crêpes, give the batter a stir and flavor with vanilla. Brush a crêpes pan with a little oil and heat. Ladle in a little bate and tilt the pan to cover the bottom thinly. Cook the crêpe for 1 minute. As soon as little holes appear all over the surface, turn the crêpe over and cook the other side for 30 to 40 seconds.Transfer to a plate and cook the rest of the batter, stacking the crêpes interleaved with waxed paper as they are cooked.
To make the meringue cream, in a heatproof bowl of an electric mixer set over a saucepan of simmering water, combine the egg whites and sugar. Cook, whisking constantly, until the sugar has dissolved and the mixture is warm to the touch (about 160 | 351 |
Samsung Galaxy S5 Active is compatible with Chatr H<|fim_middle|> Samsung Galaxy S5 Active will work properly or not, in which bands Samsung Galaxy S5 Active will work on Chatr and the network performance between Chatr and Samsung Galaxy S5 Active. To check if Samsung Galaxy S5 Active is really allowed in Chatr network please contact Chatr support. Do not use this website to decide to buy Samsung Galaxy S5 Active to use on Chatr. | SDPA.
To configure Chatr APN settings with Samsung Galaxy S5 Active follow below steps.
If the above Chatr Internet & MMS APN settings do not work on your Galaxy S5 Active, make below changes to Chatr Internet & MMS APN settings to get Chatr Internet on your Samsung Galaxy S5 Active.
For Samsung Galaxy S5 Active, when you type Chatr APN settings, make sure you enter APN settings in correct case. For example, if you are entering Chatr Internet & MMS APN settings make sure you enter APN as chatrweb.apn and not as CHATRWEB.APN or Chatrweb.apn.
Samsung Galaxy S5 Active is compatible with below network frequencies of Chatr. Galaxy S5 Active has variants AT&T and Bell.
Samsung Galaxy S5 Active AT&T, Bell supports Chatr 3G on HSDPA 850 MHz and 1900 MHz.
Overall compatibililty of Samsung Galaxy S5 Active with Chatr is 100%. The compatibility of Samsung Galaxy S5 Active with Chatr, or the Chatr network support on Samsung Galaxy S5 Active we have explained here is only a technical specification match between Samsung Galaxy S5 Active and Chatr network. Even Samsung Galaxy S5 Active is listed as compatible here, Chatr network can still disallow (sometimes) Samsung Galaxy S5 Active in their network using IMEI ranges. Therefore, this only explains if Chatr allows Samsung Galaxy S5 Active in their network, whether | 315 |
In 2006 Todd Lynn debuted his much anticipated men's collection. On the surface he may appear to be new to the fashion game, but everyone should know; appearances aren't<|fim_middle|> brand.
Any rock star or starlet would retain an instant image of edgy chic while wearing the clothing. Muted taupe, camel, black, and grays were the color pallet of choice allowing for the focus to be on the cut of the creation.
Minimalistic in clean lines, interest was made by the mixing construction of shiny and smooth. Both men and women models gated down the runway with the focal point on their shoulders. Whether it was fur, wool, or leather; over emphasized shoulders led the way for his structured silhouettes.
Trousers for both were tailored to the "T". The woman's design looked particularly comfortable with a fit of leggings, but exuding a quality only superior fabric can bring. The jackets were what caught my attention. The most attractive was a high neck piece with panels of fabric strapped to a full length frontal zipper which is so captivating it is sure to be clamored after by his celebrity clientèle.
As reported on style.com, Lynn's inspiration was the hunt; the hunt of the animal-hence the fur and the hunted returning the favor- the caged jacket. His vision was achieved. The collection invoked amazing garments for any fall wardrobe update. | always what they seem. In fact, the designer had been catering to some of the biggest names in Rock and Roll (Mick Jagger and Bono to name a few) for quite some time before branching out and establishing a | 46 |
Facebook is playing the nostalgia card in its latest bid to drive up video viewing and<|fim_middle|>ize video ads more effectively compared with videos in users' News Feeds. But according to a survey conducted this spring, half of U.S. adult Facebook users had never even heard of Facebook Watch.
Initially, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," "Angel" and "Firefly" will be available on mobile and web platforms, with plans to later make them available on Facebook's connected-TV apps. | video ad sales: using TV reruns.
The social-media giant is launching every episode of Joss Whedon's supernatural drama "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and spinoff "Angel" along with sci-fi show "Firefly" on Facebook Watch for free to users the U.S. All 268 episodes of the shows will be available to watch starting Friday, Nov. 30, under a licensing pact with 20th Century Fox Television.
Facebook has set up dedicated show pages for each of the series: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" will be available at this link; "Angel" is available at this link; and "Firefly" is streaming here.
The trio of shows, which aired on TV more than 15 years ago, is not exclusive to Facebook: All seasons of the three also are available on Hulu's subscription service.
But Facebook believes the cult-favorite shows — particularly "Buffy" — will drive up watch time by letting fans experience the series in a brand-new, social way (along with the fact they're free to watch). This week it expanded the Watch Party co-viewing feature to everyone on Facebook, making it possible for users to start Watch Parties from their Timeline or from any public video on Facebook. The company's hope is that "Buffy," "Angel" and "Firefly" will spawn thousands of Watch Party sessions.
"What we've been focused on Watch is building a people-centric video platform, creating a social viewing experience where you can connect with other people who love the shows, and even the creatives who worked on them," said Matthew Henick, Facebook's head of content planning and strategy for media partnerships.
Facebook also is enlisting talent from the shows to promote the free streaming — including Sarah Michelle Gellar, star of the "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" series. On Friday, Gellar announced the free streaming of the show in a video on her Facebook Page, which has nearly 1 million followers, in which she underscored the platform's co-viewing features to watch along with other "Buffy" fans on Facebook.
"It's time to slay all day," Gellar says in the announcement.
Other talent from "Buffy," "Angel" and "Firefly" are expected to participate in live conversations via Watch Party, according to Facebook. Facebook has scheduled Watch Parties for each show: The "Buffy" co-viewing will kick off at 3 p.m. PT on Friday (Nov. 30); "Angel" will start on Dec. 1 at 12 p.m. PT; and "Firefly" will launch Dec. 2 at 12 p.m. PT.
Facebook is streaming all seven seasons of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" (144 episodes), five seasons of "Angel" (110 episodes) and the single season of "Firefly" (14 episodes). The company declined to disclose how long the shows will be available on Facebook or discuss other terms. The episodes of the shows will include Facebook's midroll ad breaks, with ads sold by Facebook.
Facebook has been trying to steer users to Watch, where it can monet | 648 |
Zeus Hotel in Pomorie spa and sea resort in Bulgaria. Book a<|fim_middle|>. | bargain sea holiday in Pomorie online.
Location: Zeus hotel is located in a quiet part of the old town of Pomorie, 300 m from the beach. The hotel is perfect for family recreation, business meetings and dinners, business trips, prom balls and leisure.
Accommodation: Hotel Zeus offers 4 cosy apartments, a studio, 22 comfortable double rooms and 4 single rooms. The rooms feature central air-conditioning, wireless internet, cable television, mini bar, dressing table, bathroom with shower cabin or corner bath-tub in the apartments/ studio, hair-drier, terraces.
Wine & dine: The restaurant offers 60 seats. It is divided into 2 halls – for smokers and for non smokers. The restaurant offers traditional Bulgarian cuisine, fish and sea food delicacies, pizza, pasta, exotic food, barbecue, warm appetizers, home made deserts.
Zeus restaurant in Pomorie is an ideal place for business public dinners, family celebrations, anniversaries, weddings, birthdays, farewell balls, business meetings, cocktail-parties, children parties and others.
Conference facilities: The hotel offers 3 business halls with an audio-visual equipment for 20 – 30 people | 251 |
Premieres Wednesday, Oct. 2 10/9c
Back to Cast
Jessica Cortez
Stephanie Sigman
Stephanie Sigman is a Mexican-American model turned actress who first garnered attention for her breakout role as Laura Guerrero in the independent feature film Miss Bala.
Named one of Variety's "1<|fim_middle|>Victor Tan
David Lim | 0 Latinos to Watch in 2015," Sigman most recently appeared on television in the critically acclaimed series Narcos as Valeria Velez. Her additional television credits include recurring roles in the series American Crime and The Bridge.
Sigman has amassed a number of feature film credits, including her landmark role as the first Mexican "Bond Girl" in the 2015 release Spectre" opposite Daniel Craig. Most recently, she starred in Shimmer Lake, opposite Ron Livingston, Rainn Wilson, Rob Corddry, and Adam Pally, and Once Upon a Time in Venice, opposite Bruce Willis, John Goodman, and Jason Mamoa. Later this year, she can be seen in the horror sequel Annabelle: Creation.
Her additional film credits include the dark comedy War on Everyone, opposite Alexander Skarsgård and Michael Peña, and the Norwegian independent thriller Pioneer, opposite Wes Bentley, which premiered at the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival.
Sigman is an avid dog lover and sports fan who trains in boxing during her free time. She is a huge baseball enthusiast and grew up in the industry due to her father, Lee Sigman, a former professional baseball player, team manager, and current talent scout for the New York Yankees.
Born in Ciudad Obregón in the state of Sonora, Mexico, Sigman received her professional training at State Center of Artistic and Cultural Education, part of the Querétaro Institute for Culture and the Arts in Querétaro, Mexico.
Currently, Sigman resides in Los Angeles with her dog Paloma. Her birthday is Feb. 28. Follow her on Twitter @sigmanstephanie and on Instagram @stephaniesigman.
Daniel "Hondo" Harrelson
Jim Street
David "Deacon" Kay
Jay Harrington
Christina "Chris" Alonso
Dominique Luca
Kenneth "Kenny" Johnson
Peter Onorati
| 400 |
Brent Gulledge Photography is a contemporary wedding photographer based in Belmont, North Carolina. Brent shoots weddings in a mix of lifestyle photography styles with a strong focus on timeless portraiture. He will document the day in a candid and creative way by capturing all the details of the unforgettable moments. With more than 10 years of photography experience, Brent travels to weddings throughout North and South Carolina.
Phenomenal wedding photographer and an amazingly talented man! We had a blast working with Brent at our wedding. He captured the moments of joy and happiness and laughter. He was so patient with our family and friends and creative in his photography. I'm saving my favorite photos he took and I already have over 300!!! My husband is also a fan of Brent as a wedding photographer (and normally my husband doesn't love having his photo taken.) Wonderful photos of our best day ever!! He was artistic and very responsive in planning our wedding photos and the wedding day photos are incredible!!!
Brent photographer my October 15th wedding and I couldn't have been more pleased with the pictures! They turned out beautifully! He also shot our engagement shoot, which partially took place in a bamboo forest. It was such a great location! Brent was so great at our wedding. He was able to get all the shots<|fim_middle|>Brent Gulledge Photography is one of the best NC photographers that we have had the pleasure to work with at the Saratoga Springs. When he is on the job, no worries...he shows up and gets the job done and the result is awesome images!
It's an amazing thing to run into high school friends and find out that you work in the same industry! Even better when you've worked together at a wedding! Brent has a super smooth style with tons of elegance when it comes to this photography! Watching Brent work with couples is awesome! It's almost like he knows what the couple is going to do before they do it! When you see his work, you'll definitely notice his amazing skills behind the camera. It shows big time!
Brent is a great Photographer. I always love his works ... He has an "eye", and very creative. He's also nice to work with !! | we wanted and made sure everyone looked well put together in each picture. It was such a fun day and I'm so glad we had a fantastic photographer to capture all of it! Thanks, Brent!
Brent has an incredible way of making the couple feel comfortable through, what my husband and I called, his polite directive-ness. He was professional, down to earth, creative and genuinely a great photographer to work with. Even with less than optimal weather conditions, he rolled with it and was efficient at snapping as many photos as we could before the storm. To boot, his final product is excellent- quality, rich colored, crisp photos to remind us of this incredible season and day. I'd book him again in a heartbeat.
| 147 |
Murrayville, GA Real Estate — Homes For Sale in Murrayville, GA
Better Homes and Gardens Real Estate Metro Brokers
25 R & S Lane
Murrayville, GA 30564
Listing Provided Courtesy of VICTOR DOVER, DOVER REALTY & INVESTMENTS, INC. via
Listing Provided Courtesy of Victor Dover, Dover Realty & Investments Inc via Georgia Multiple Listing Service
7563 Chestatee Lane
Listing Provided Courtesy of JOHN SIVAK, TREND ATLANTA REALTY, INC. via
8043 Beachwood Drive
Listing Provided Courtesy of JILL JOHNSTON, COLDWELL BANKER REALTY via
Listing Provided Courtesy of JILL JACKSON JOHNSTON, Coldwell Banker Realty via Georgia Multiple Listing Service
0 Yellow Creek Road
Listing Provided Courtesy of Judy London Dunagan, Keller Williams Lanier Partner via Georgia Multiple Listing Service
0 Wahoo Creek Road
(Based on a 30 year fixed loan at 4.18% with $7,980 down)
Listing Provided Courtesy of DMITRIJS Z<|fim_middle|>442,000. Right now, there are 34 homes listed for sale in Murrayville, including 0 condos and 2 foreclosures. You can research home values, browse Murrayville's hottest homes, and see what Better Homes and Gardens Real Estate's agents have to say...
Better Homes and Gardens Real Estate estimates the median home price in Murrayville is $442,000. Right now, there are 34 homes listed for sale in Murrayville, including 0 condos and 2 foreclosures. You can research home values, browse Murrayville's hottest homes, and see what Better Homes and Gardens Real Estate's agents have to say about the local area. Check out our page on Murrayville market trends to start exploring!
Real Estate Resources for Atlanta, GA
With Better Homes and Gardens® Real Estate, it's easy to find the latest homes for sale in Murrayville, GA. We have the latest MLS listings, including new homes for sale, condos for sale, townhomes for sale, foreclosed homes for sale, and land for sale. Use our website or our convenient mobile app to define your own Murrayville real estate search criteria and filter homes by price, size, number of bedrooms, and much more. Try our keyword search feature to find the home that meets your needs. Get to know the neighborhood you're interested in with interactive maps, photos, schools, and more. You'll also be able to search for local Murrayville real estate agents when you're ready - and read agent reviews written by real estate clients.
5088 Helen Highway
Sautee Nacoochee, GA 30571
Website provided and owned by Better Homes and Gardens Real Estate Metro Brokers. | ITANS, First United Realty via Georgia Multiple Listing Service
Listing Provided Courtesy of DMITRIJS ZITANS, FIRST UNITED REALTY OF ATLANTA, LLC. via
5087 Twin Oaks Lane
Listing Provided Courtesy of Robert White, WEICHERT REALTORS-R&D PROPERTI via Georgia Multiple Listing Service
6175 Yellow Creek Road
Lot Size 38.6 acre
Listing Provided Courtesy of JENNIFER DAVIS, Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices Georgia Properties via Georgia Multiple Listing Service
Listing Provided Courtesy of JENNIFER DAVIS, BERKSHIRE HATHAWAY HOMESERVICES GEORGIA PROPERTIES via
197 Deer Hollow Lane
Listing Provided Courtesy of WELCH TEAM, KELLER WILLIAMS REALTY COMMUNITY PARTNERS via
Listing Provided Courtesy of Welch Team, Keller Williams Community Ptnr via Georgia Multiple Listing Service
Listing Provided Courtesy of Noe Guajardo, Virtual Properties Realty.com via Georgia Multiple Listing Service
Listing Provided Courtesy of NOE GUAJARDO, VIRTUAL PROPERTIES REALTY.COM via
Insights about Murrayville, GA from Local Real Estate Agents
Adriane Dragomirescu on 11/13/2020
Murrayville, GA
Murrayville is an unincorporated community in Hall County, Georgia, United States. The community is located along Georgia State Route 60, 9.6 miles , north-northwest of... more
Murrayville is an unincorporated community in Hall County, Georgia, United States. The community is located along Georgia State Route 60, 9.6 miles , north-northwest of Gainesville. Murrayville has a post office with ZIP code 30564. The community was named after Patrick J. Murray, a local merchant. less
Real Estate Market Trends in Murrayville, GA
Better Homes and Gardens Real Estate estimates the median home price in Murrayville is $ | 419 |
As for Sir Arthur & Sir Hew, – for the first time in my life I was so irritated by public news as to pass a sleepless night in consequence. There is a straight & easy way of proceeding in such a case – which is to break the convention, & shoot those who made it; or else, after the manner of the Romans, deliver these up to the enemy with ropes about their necks. Sir Arthur ought to be shot for fighting when he did. he was afraid of being superseded before he won a battle, & for that reason fought with only half his own force, – for fear if he had waited till the other half came up Sir Hew should land & take the command. Sir Hew – Lady Hew I ought rather to say for the creature has long been known to be an old woman, – then suffered Junot to fall back about thirty miles after the battle, & during the negociations, – & so between them they have sacrificed the honour of England & the interest of Spain. But the root of all evil lies in the Duke of York who appoints such wretches. It is one comfort that the general opinion is so openly & loudly expressed, – & I hope & trust an example will be made of the commander<|fim_middle|> is good reason to think Herbert will at least equal his father in this domestic accomplishment. | . My own opinion is that no man could possibly consent to let Junot carry off his plunder, unless he had been promised a share of it for so doing. This will be laughed at & generally scouted, – but the man who could subscribe such a convention is capable of any degree of baseness; – & there are but two possible motives for his conduct, – cowardice or corruption. the former with a victorious & superior army seems to be out of the question. & for the latter – I am afraid Senhora that they who sell their votes at home would not have much scruple at selling their country abroad.
Mr. Horton seemed to be all that is deaf & good natured. His wife is as unpleasant a woman as one shall meet on a summers day. – out of humour with every thing, Borrowdale was nothing to Dovedale, & the roads were intolerable, too bad for any body's horse or carriage. The daughter (whom I named Miss Nobs from a strong likeness which she bears to the hero of that noble story of Dr Daniel Dove of Doncaster) has more of her fathers temper & would have been well enough pleased if she might.
I have heard that the Mountagues mean to travel hitherward. In this marriage she risks something which he does not, – but having already taken the children, the worst part of the bargain was made & the rest to be expected. I am curious to see her. Coleridge is now settled at Grasmere, & the boys are going to school at Ambleside. He has been over here twice, – the last time while we were at Netherhall, – & then he was in villainous humour & there was a good deal of cat-&-doggery going on, as I dare say Mrs Mountague will hear when she gets to Grasmere. I do not expect to see much of him.
Rickman comes next month, – a matter of great joy, he being one of the men whom I like best in the world. – sound headed & sound hearted.
Heaven & Mr Frere know why the Cid has been delayed – I do not. But they tell me it was expected to be published yesterday – so I trust Sir Edwards copy will have arrived before this reaches you. I need not bid you admire this book, a great part of which will assuredly be after your own heart.
Kehama & everything else have been standing still lately. I am now setting out again on a fresh campaign. Paper may be expected to fall, & the next news which I shall have to send you will, it is to be hoped, be that my Brazil is in the press. Make my respects to Sir Edward – take Ediths love, & believe me very affectionately yours – Robert Southey.
Your God daughter makes poor work with her pencil, & cries (literally) for Barker to come & teach her to do it better. Oh that you could see my son such a beautiful fellow, & so gloriously noisy – Train up a child &c says Solomon, – & I am following his advice so well, that there | 650 |
Jenny Craig sheds beachfront Del Mar mansion for $22 million
Weight loss guru Jenny Craig has unloaded<|fim_middle|> room for 18 cars leads to a four-car garage. Two guest suites and an outdoor kitchen round out the three-quarter-acre grounds.
Craig, 87, founded her eponymous nutrition and weight loss company in 1983. Combining weight-loss counseling with personalized meal plans, Jenny Craig Inc. has grown to more than 700 brick-and-mortar centers and 3,000 employees.
Zachary Wagner of Willis Allen Real Estate held the listing. Jason Barry of Barry Estates represented the buyer.
src link: https://www.latimes.com/business/real-estate/story/2019-08-28/jenny-craig-sheds-beachfront-del-mar-mansion-for-22-million | her beachfront compound in Del Mar for $22 million, or $17.9 million shy of her original asking price.
Los Angeles Times - Real Estate News
After trimming down the asking price of her Del Mar mansion, weight loss guru Jenny Craig has sold the home for $22 million. That's $17.5 million shy of her original asking price, records show.
Shaped like a hollow rectangle, the estate wraps around a courtyard with a pool and spa before descending to 80 feet of ocean frontage. Inside, the tan-colored compound holds five bedrooms and 6.5 bathrooms in 7,625 square feet.
Bright common spaces combine crisp white walls with Saltillo tile floors and walls of glass across two stories. A dual-sided fireplace separates a pair of living areas, and the main floor also holds a galley-style kitchen and dining area.
The living room under beamed ceilings. (Gary Kasl)
The ocean-view dining area. (Gary Kasl)
The master suite. (Gary Kasl)
The dual-sided fireplace. (Gary Kasl)
The family room with built-ins. (Gary Kasl)
The breakfast nook. (Gary Kasl)
The galley-style kitchen. (Gary Kasl)
The master bathroom. (Gary Kasl)
The courtyard with a swimming pool. (Gary Kasl)
The courtyard. (Gary Kasl)
The oceanfront patio. (Gary Kasl)
The beach. (Gary Kasl)
The exterior. (Gary Kasl)
The ocean. (Gary Kasl)
Up a spiral staircase, the master suite has beamed ceilings and a tile fireplace. Through French doors, it expands to a wraparound deck with sweeping ocean views.
A palm-topped beachfront patio spans the home's back side. In the front, a gated driveway with | 376 |
Summary of "Our Inner Ape" by Frans de Waal
QuickRead presents a summary of "Our Inner Ape" by Frans de Waal:
If you've ever wanted to unlock the moral, sexual,<|fim_middle|> Voss | and evolutionary origins of your inner ape, leading primatologist Frans de Waal's analysis can take you on a revolutionary journey.
We're all familiar with the evolutionary principle which posits that humans evolved from primates, but de Waal uses his expertise in primatology to explore this concept in greater detail. Arguing that humans are just as closely related to the gentle bonobo species as their aggressive counterparts, the Chimpanzees, de Waal compares and contrasts the two primates and argues that their lifestyles and sexual behavior has a great deal to teach us about the origins of human morality.
QuickRead
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The<|fim_middle|> lecturers for a 5-day programme. | Camp is designed to expose upper primary school pupils to the beauty of mathematical ideas and to new ways of thinking. It is a vibrant community, made up of pupils with varied ability levels. It is envisaged that pupils would explore topics by building problem-solving skills that would equip them to become successful in any career or endeavour.
In an interaction with the campers, the Ag. Vice-Chancellor of UEW, Very Rev. Fr. Prof. Anthony Afful-Broni, indicated that generally, a lot of students were not enthused about the study of Mathematics. He however, expressed appreciation to the kids for accepting to be part of this great initiative.
The Ag. Vice-Chancellor took the opportunity to encourage the kids to offer themselves as clientele reference to other kids so as to ensure a greater participation come next year. Against the backdrop of the goals of the Camp, which are to build self confidence and strong self-esteem among pupils to enable them become autonomous learners, he advised them to actively participate in the programme.
The 2018 edition of the Camp project which is the maiden edition involves a total of sixty-eight (68) persons, comprising fifty (50) pupils, four (4) teachers and fourteen (14) | 251 |
Ali Riske's Guide to Tennis Bracelets
By Ali Riske
My first entrepreneurial venture began when I was eight years old selling my handcrafted thread-braided bracelets at my lemonade stand. My parents didn't have extra funds for kid's jewelry obsession, so I took it upon myself to create something I wanted to wear. Since my assembly line of one could affordably churn out multiple bracelets, I had access to many different "pieces" of jewelry.
I took these pictures while at home for Thanksgiving—I still had some finished leftover pieces in there, too!
Around the same time, I played my first ever tennis tournament, which I won, but not without drama. I thought I lost the match—after winning the first set, I lost the second and immediately came off court to cry to my mom, only to be told I had to go back out and play a third set!
Upon winning, I received my first ever trophy, and I immediately wanted more, so I began immersing myself in the sport and watching tennis on TV. Monica Seles was—and remains, my all-time favorite tennis player and quite honestly, the only player I wanted to watch, because I loved everything about her from her warrior style of play to her minimal style. I studied her like a hawk and wanted to be just like her, even down to her classic pearl earrings, and I knew I wanted to be just like that one day, too.
Fast forward to the moment that I had more than just lemonade and bracelet-stand profits in my bank account, and I finally had the ability to afford some jewelry that I truly loved and had aspired to wear. I naturally gravitated towards stud earrings because they were something I could easily wear while playing tennis, and they allowed me to finally channel my inner Monica. As<|fim_middle|> they are classic and generational, two things I always look for when investing in jewelry. This piece has a little bit of whimsy, while still remaining an iconic tennis bracelet. | these things do, my jewelry ambitions quickly escalated to bracelets, then necklaces, and then basically anything that added a little sparkle to my outfit.
While my on-court style is very streamlined and simple, I love my jewelry even more when I can put it on for a special evening out, or for celebrations around the holidays. In that spirit, I wanted to share with you some of my favorite sparkly bracelet picks because Racquet asked me to and it's the season!
I hope one catches your eye!
While I may be biased, few tennis bracelets excite me more than the ones at Kazanjian Beverly Hills. As a matter of fact, when I wanted my own tennis bracelet, I came to them and they made it come to life. I love the character that this Kazanjian bracelet brings to life. Non-traditional in design, but beaming with diamonds alongside nicely sized blue zircons. As shades of blue are my favorite color, this aquamarine piece definitely got my attention.
I am all about putting twists on timeless designs and I think this bracelet does it simply and perfectly. We are accustomed to seeing white diamonds in eternity tennis bracelets, but the black diamonds here add a different allure while remaining just as beautiful as the original we have all come to adore—especially stacked alongside a white diamond one. The 14k black gold is also a touch that truly sets this bracelet apart.
I of course had to include one of Chrissie Evert's latest designs from her collaboration with Monica Rich Kosann. As the "mother of the tennis bracelet," Chrissie knows best, so it was hard to choose just in her collection. The incorporation of different shaped diamonds and the hint of color in this strand make this particular design unique. The single emerald stone is to pay homage to the green tennis court that Chrissie was playing on when her bracelet famously flew off in competition at the '78 US Open, the first year the tournament was played on green hardcourts, and the beginning of the tennis bracelet legend.
Ring Concierge has made quite the name for itself. They have transformed the jewelry industry by being one of the first companies to have a mission to make diamonds more financially accessible to the masses. I love that they are constantly releasing new lines and keeping their product very fresh. Founder, Nicole Wegman, has built a brand looking to create "inspirational and attainable" pieces of jewelry. What I personally enjoy most about her collections are | 504 |
Student Led Volunteering are recruiting Project leaders for the next academic year – why not do something amazing and apply today? We currently have four Student Led Volunteering projects running and they are all looking for new project leaders for the next academic year!
The Green Team – Getting out of the city and into the countryside – running events such as tree planting and conservation of the local environment.
Animal Conservation – Broadening the experiences of students in practical animal conservation.
Special Olympics – Help to engage adults with learning and physical disabilities in sporting activities.
UniCycle Project – Champion sustainability and ensure the homeless do not go hungry.
Micro Volunteering – Think outside the box to make a big impact in a small amount of time!
Student Led Volunteering is exactly that – Student led, so, if you have ideas for an exciting new project why not pop into the volunteering office and have a chat with us.
The perfect opportunity to contribute to your local community, plan volunteering events and develop your leadership skills.
Enthusiasm for volunteering and a passion for the project you some to lead. Time commitment averages to around 12<|fim_middle|> | hours a month. UPSU's Volunteering department will provide you with full support in your role.
It is advised that you read through the Project Leader Role Description, The UPSU Student Led Volunteering Terms of Reference Document, and find out a bit more about the project you wish to run. | 61 |
Home // Training // Basketball Training
The Key Players Who Have Fueled Their Team's Run to the Final Four
A look at the top performers who have propelled their teams to the Final Four of the 2015 NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament.
On Saturday, Kentucky, Wisconsin, Duke and Michigan State will take the court in Indianapolis to compete for the right to play in the championship game of the 2015 NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament. Each team has taken a unique path to get here, with different players stepping into the limelight and hoisting their respective teams on their backs. Here's how this year's final four teams have made their mark on March Madness.
Though they experienced a scare against a Notre Dame team that moves the ball on offense like the San Antonio Spurs, Kentucky marches in to the Final Four with a shiny record of 38-0. After trailing for most of their game against the Irish, the Wildcats turned up the heat at the 12-minute mark of<|fim_middle|> stop the master of March, Tom Izzo, from guiding his Michigan State Spartans to the Final Four. Point guard Travis Trice has become a star, as shown by his 25-point performance against Oklahoma to reach Indianapolis. Denzel Valentine has been a perfect second banana to Trice, scoring when needed and taking a backseat when Trice pulls up from deep, making Izzo pull his hair out until the shot drops through the net.
With Izzo at the helm, the Spartans appearing in the championship game is not a stretch.
For more great insight, following Alan Stein on Twitter at @AlanStein
Topics: BASKETBALL TRAINING | NEWS | CHAMPIONSHIP | MICHIGAN STATE
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Putting Together an Off-Season Workout for Point Guards | the second half, shooting 9-for-9 from the field the rest of the way.
The Harrison twins have played huge roles in keeping Kentucky steady, and on a team full of freshmen, their leadership and experience have been invaluable.
"Given that they [the Harrison twins] were in last year's national championship game gives Kentucky a nice mix of unbelievably talented freshmen with some great veteran leadership," says Alan Stein, owner of Stronger Team, who has attended many Kentucky practices over the years.
We've already shown you the work Kentucky puts in behind the scenes to keep their players fresh and strong for the grind of the tournament. But when it came time to step up against Notre Dame, it was the Harrison twins—Aaron draining a deep 3 and Andrew hitting two clutch free throws—who sealed the victory.
It seems a little unfair for a team to have both a big man scoring at will in the post and a long-range marksman knocking down triples, but that's what Wisconsin has used to reach the Final Four. Frank "The Tank" Kaminsky uses his size and athleticism on the block not only to get buckets but demand a double team. When that happens, he can kick the ball out to Sam Dekker to drain a 3, as Dekker did in the waning moments of Wisconsin's win over Arizona.
"Sam Dekker and Frank Kaminsky are arguably the nation's best front court," Stein says. "Wisconsin is a big strong team that can play both inside and out."
Inside and out will be the way the Badgers have a shot at taking down Kentucky. Since the Wildcats have the size to match Kamisnky down low, Dekker's shooting will become the key to Wisconsin's bid for an upset.
In Jahlil Okafor, Duke has the best freshman in the country and one of the best low-post threats as well. But it was the other Blue Devils who got it done against Gonzaga in the Elite Eight. Okafor was able to muster up just nine points, but fellow freshman Justise Winslow put on a clinic. He poured in 16 points, and another newbie, Tyus Jones, helped out with 15.
"Jones and Winslow have matured greatly over the course of the season," Stein says. "They play very up-tempo, are fourth in the country in scoring and are third in the country in field goal percentage. Duke is so successful because they play unselfishly and take very high percentage shots."
Duke hasn't scored fewer than 60 points in a tournament game yet, and we don't think that will change against Michigan State. Okafor will no doubt get back to scoring in double digits, but if he struggles again, his fast maturing freshman teammates aren't afraid to take big shots.
Even a seventh seed couldn't | 577 |
Preheat the oven to 110°C/225°F/gas ¼.
Wash and trim the leeks, then trim the carrots and celery, and wash the onions (skin on). Roughly chop the bacon.
Place the bacon in a large casserole pan on a medium heat with 1 tablespoon of olive oil, fry for a few minutes until golden, then add the bay, strip in the rosemary leaves, and put the rabbit and offal on top.
Peel the white skin from the garlic, leaving the bulb whole, then drop into the pan with the leeks, carrots, celery and onions.
Add the dried porcini, followed by the tinned tomatoes, breaking them up with a spoon as you go. Pour over the beer, add the tomato purée, and just enough water to cover everything (roughly 1 litre).
Bring to the boil, season generously with black pepper and a few pinches of sea salt, then finely grate in half the nutmeg. Cover with a lid, then place in the oven to tick away for 12 hours.
When the time's up, let the stew cool down a little, then get yourself a big pair of clean Marigold gloves and another large pan. Pick through small handfuls of stew at a time, taking out any bones or vegetable skins. Discard the herbs, and flake the beautiful meat<|fim_middle|> heat and cook around 75g of pasta per person. Cook the pasta in boiling salted water according to the packet instructions, then drain, reserving a mugful of starchy cooking water.
Toss the pasta with the sauce, loosening with a little cooking water, if needed, then grate in a good handful of cheese. Taste and season to perfection, then serve immediately with an extra grating of cheese, a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and some fresh thyme tips.
Once it comes out of the oven you've got a rustic sauce that you can portion up and freeze for all sorts of beautiful meals in the days and weeks to come. If you aren't a lover of rabbit meat, I urge you to try this. It's cheap, it's tasty, and it's easy ... Are you convinced yet? | off the bones and into the clean pan. Scrunch the vegetables and offal in your hands as you go and break them into smaller pieces.
Pour any juices left behind into the new pan, then go back in and have another rummage to make sure you haven't missed anything. Season to perfection with salt and pepper.
Finely grate in the lemon zest and pick in a few thyme tips to brighten up the sauce. Divvy the sauce up between sandwich bags and either freeze them, or keep in the fridge.
To make rabbit bolognese, simply reheat a small ladle of sauce per person in a pan over a medium | 131 |
A fantastic opportunity has recently arisen for a talented Software Engineer with a background in Neuroimaging to work with a rapidly growing start-up company. This product-centric team are striving to solve complex problems with creative solutions for their cloud based solution platform and require independent thinkers who can influence how their innovative system is improved.
You will be working with as part of a small group, working on an account to provide software solutions for their ground breaking cloud platform. A successful Software Engineer will be expected to apply their academic background in<|fim_middle|> in this or would like some more information then please don't hesitate to contact Jack Lacy via jlacy@pararecruit.com or call 0121, 616, 3467.
Barcelona, Spain, European, Software, Software Developer, Software Engineer, Neuroimaging, Image Analysis, fMRI, MRI, Neuro, Neuroscience. | Neuroscience with their programming skills and develop new and creative tools to meet their clients' specifications.
– Developing pipelines to process Neuroimaging data.
For a successful candidate, this company are offering a fantastic opportunity to utilise your academic background with your programming abilities. They are offering a competitive salary and package (DOE) and are working on real world solutions in a dynamic and rapidly growing company.
If you are interested | 81 |
I have several paintings of horses, but this is one of my favorites. A knight sits astride the beautiful palomino. The gleaning of the metal in juxtaposition to the chestnut color of the body of the horse. The sunlight gleams on the metal, and right in the center of the shield for the horse is a sunburst. The golden yellow seems to have it's own light, which then brings the eye of the spectator to the eye of the horse. Now, the eye of the spectator and the horse are locked…since the eye of the horse is gently looking back at the<|fim_middle|> painting that went unnoticed the last time it was viewed. This painting hangs in our family room. The hose peeking at us while we are on the couch. I often find myself checking in on the horse and rider, but let's not kid ourselves this painting is all about the horse. | viewer. The eye of the viewer then follows the elbow up to the top of the canvas. The red color brings the eye back to the bottom of the canvas, looking at the blanket. Christine has done an excellent job of allowing a nice flow for the spectator. the eye is wandering around the canvas, and finding another aspect of the | 67 |
A bit like sticking your head into a box without knowing what's inside, Particle Fields is an album to<|fim_middle|>apes and beautifully polished production, Particle Fields is a rippling slow-flowing ooze of an album, the sounds passing from end to end like inky rivers over shards of rock. | be experienced, not just heard.
Coming from two different points on the spectrum (electronic mixer/producer Koch and classical violinist Lack), this album is their first collaboration and it's one of those beautiful collisions that stirs up something completely new and innovative for both artists.
A seamless configuration of their two musical voices, the sound they make together is dark and brooding, reminiscent of icebergs in the moonlight and endless fields swaying into the distance.
With Lack's superb sureness of touch and Koch's horizon-wide imagination bringing in a giddying array of subtle touches, noises and textures, they have combined to create something rather beautiful indeed.
Lack's yearning playing style adds a ghostly sheen of beauty beneath which Koch's dark undercurrents swirl, particularly on tracks like The Dream, where her subtle finger work weaves elegiac melodies over ominous percussion rumbles.
Ace cuts include the truly creepy jazz swing of Sun Storm, all feverish snare patterns and anguished strings, and the drowsy half dream which is Hideaway.
Full of immaculate playing, spectacular soundsc | 225 |
I watched the pre-alpha video. Voice acting was meh, but it looks as alright as what I would expect from MWO<|fim_middle|>'ll definitely play it. I might even pay for it if it's good. Still, I won't be all too surprised if PGI finds a way to screw it up. | .
Still, I really hope they don't screw it up though. I can't imagine the team to be very large, and a development time of under 2 years seems like quite a feat for a small team. That, and PGI has a history of epic failings with their MWO game that simply makes me wonder if they can make the right design decisions in a single player game.
Oh, and they really need to get rid of the whole long sleeved shirt and pants mechwarrior avatar thing. It's supposed to be a steam room in the cockpit.
That looks impressive...voice acting is alright but that normally gets done near the end of development I'd imagine. I laughed at the payraise injoke.
Essentially, it is a remake of the 1989 MechWarrior by Activision. But that's great, because I always loved the original.
I | 181 |
MY FAVORITE ROBOT 2 Titles
Barricade (DJ Tennis Remix)
MY FAVORITE ROBOT RECORDS
MFR 175EP
$21.00$17.85 IN STOCK
My Favorite Robot's "Barricade" was a huge house track first released on DJ Tennis's Life And Death label back in 2012. Presented as a one-sided 10" on white vinyl, DJ Tennis's new remix is a masterfully melancholic one that will provide a center point for any seriously emotional set.
Barricade EP
LAD 006EP
<|fim_middle|> rattling out a Morse code of messages from the future. Mano Le Tough's remix of "The Waiting Rain" teleports us to his future studio. | Canada's My Favorite Robot have been making a name for themselves with releases, DJ gigs and their own stellar label. "Barricade" is a modern ballad written with the wisdom of future hindsight. "The Waiting Rain" paints a foreign landscape, written on machines of sound, built in the future but designed in the past. Photek's remix of "Barricade" features deep, throbbing bass | 85 |
Any business owner that uses a warehouse will benefit from racking inspection<|fim_middle|> your staff more independence with SEMA Racking Inspections: the number one safety organisation for racking inspection training run by a SEMA approved racking inspector! | training.
Racking inspection training is a great way to ensure that your warehouse, and your staff, can operate at their full potential. Here are just a few reasons why.
If your employees are trained in how to carry out racking inspections, then that is one less thing you have to worry about yourself. Of course, HSE still recommend a visit from a SEMA approved racking inspector at least once a year. However, racking inspection training means that you can let your staff deal with day-to-day racking safety issues without having to hold their hands.
The expression "knowledge is power" is commonly attributed to Francis Bacon and, though he was not referring to racking inspection training when he said those words, the expression still applies. It's true that profit margins, product desirability, and consumer behaviour are three of the most powerful pieces of knowledge that any business owner can have. However, knowing how to inspect your racking for faults also gives you power. Rather than standing idly by and waiting for somebody to tell you that your warehouse is in bad shape, racking inspection training means that you can take action early. Knowledge, in this case, is the power to reduce the negative impacts that badly maintained and uninspected racking can have on your business.
Most arguments are rooted in misunderstanding, and this is especially true in business. A third party racking inspector might tell you a whole heap of things that, as a business owner, you don't want to hear. If you don't understanding racking safety, then it's quite easy to simply wave their advice aside. In the long run, this is both dangerous and unprofitable. And all of this can avoided through the communication and understanding acquired by a company wide racking inspection training course.
Business writer Joseph Folkman notes that one of the biggest mistakes that managers make is thinking that telling staff a bunch of things is the same as communicating with them. If everybody is trained on racking safety, then talking about racking safety becomes more than just one person reeling off a list of rules. Rather, it becomes a genuine conversation between people who know the protocols, understand the situation, and can work towards a solution.
Increase communication, gain knowledge, and grant yourself and | 454 |
Martin St. Louis latest milestone; Tampa Bay Lightning at Los Angeles Kings preview
The dynamo-that-makes-the-Lightning-go reaches 1000 NHL games played; Brett Connolly filling in for Stamkos is so far so good; this preview comes up late because, hey! We're 3 hours ahead of LA!
By John Fontana@Johnny_Fonts Nov 19, 2013, 3:16pm EST
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Bob DeChiara-USA TODAY Sports
Where: Staples Center, Los Angeles, California
When: 10:30 PM EST | Tickets: Check availability
Media: Sun Sports, Fox Sports West (cable) | 970 AM WFLA (radio)
Opponent Coverage: Jewels from the Crown, The Royal Half, Battle of California
October 9th, 1998 may stand out for ominous reasons for Lightning fans, as it was the start of another long and painful season; a 4-1 loss to the Florida Panthers in South Florida. I'd even go so far as to say that, at that time, a lot of current fans probably couldn't give half a care about the franchise. Casual fans who were aware of the Bolts weren't going to watch the steaming mess of the Lightning (des<|fim_middle|> yet since Stamkos' injury, he's seeing his ice time trend upward, but putting a biscuit in the basket or getting an apple just hasn't happened yet. Yet.
It'll be Ben Scrivens between the pipes for the Los Angeles Kings tonight. Ben has become the Kings de facto #1 with the injury to Jonathan Quick... And it's not exactly a bad thing. Under head coach Darryl Sutter's system and with the tutelage of LA's people (and the influence of Quick), Scrivens' numbers are statistically awesome: a .955 save percentage, a 1.24 GAA and a 4-1-1 record.
Substantial playing time may ding those numbers, but Scrivens isn't just a throw-away backup that is easily interchangeable. Recalling the 2012 AHL Calder Cup Finals, he was the only member of the Toronto Marlies that seemed like he belonged in the series (which was conceded to the Norfolk Admirals in four games). That was the AHL though, this is the NHL. And Scrivens can play.
For Tampa Bay, it'll be Ben Bishop manning the crease. Bishop got his bell rung by a puck to the mask during the loss on Saturday. He has shown no ill effects and should be ready to go tonight. I'm assuming you'll see Anders Lindback in goal on Thursday in San Jose, with Bishop going Friday in Anaheim.
The time difference was the driving factor in this preview being posted so late. That's what you get with a three-hour time difference. Expect it on Thursday and likely Friday too.
Other Game Coverage:
Tampa Bay Lightning official team preview
Full coverage on SB Nation | pite a #1 draft pick named Lecavalier and the swagger of a new owner), and probably weren't exactly paying much attention to the broader NHL either.
Honestly, can you remember how much of a fan you were 15 years ago? Even if you were a die-hard, I seriously doubt you remember NHL lineups from that night unless we're talking about then-superstars and where they were playing at the time.
I have serious doubts that anyone in Tampa Bay made note of an undersized forward, making his NHL debut with the Calgary Flames that night; it was in Calgary, mountain-standard time, so it was a late start as was. This was before Gamecenter Live, and the popularity of NHL Center Ice wouldn't manifest for some time still. "Broadband" was a foreign word, and so was "audio streaming." You could get updates from other games on message boards or the Usenet, but largely I doubt anyone living in the Tampa/St. Petersburg metro area followed the Flames taking on the San Jose Sharks that night, and the NHL debut of rookie Martin St. Louis.
He recorded two shots on goal; he was an even plus/minus that night. The statistical record for the evening is pretty simple. This is before TOI found its way into box scores, and before the advanced statistics became a popular thing in hockey circles ("Corsi? Fenwick? Are these guys eligible for the 1999 draft or something?") So there isn't much of a record to go on for St. Louis that night (at least, not from a simple search.)
That was Game One. An inconspicuous start to a career that should eventual situates him within the hallowed halls of the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto. As of this writing he has 348 goals and 584 assists to his name. And while St. Louis' career with the Tampa Bay Lightning is now on 13 seasons old, his start in Tampa Bay was just as inconspicuous as his debut in this league.
If all goes as planned (and last time Marty was going to reach a games-played benchmark, things didn't go exactly as planned), Martin St. Louis will be playing in his 1,000th career NHL game tonight in Los Angeles. That's an achievement in longevity, in perseverance, and dedication to this sport.
There are other writers out there that have already touched on Marty's milestone - head over to Lightning Shout for Alexis Boucher's write up, and drop on over (...if you don't get slammed by the pay wall) to the Tampa Bay Times to read Tom Jones piece about #26's feat. Puck Daddy also has a Top 10 Feats of MSL story up.
Congratulations, Marty!
Let's get down to business here, shall we? It's game two of a four game trek through the west. Tampa Bay was pretty much stopped and made fools of in Glendale by the Coyotes on Saturday night. The club continues to sit on top of the Eastern Conference with a 14-6-0 record, a single point ahead of the Boston Bruins.
Tonight will be episode four of the mid-season replacement series, "Life Without Steven" and so far ratings have been much more sound than expected. TV simile aside, Stamkos' immediate replacement in the lineup, Brett Connolly, has been doing all right in his out-of-position play at center the last few games. While point production hasn't been comparable to Steven Stamkos (and, really, who's does,) Connolly has been pretty much even in the faceoff circle, which has been better than Stamkos.
Of course, there are a couple of hundred less draws taken by Connolly than Stamkos, but still. 18 wins in 35 draws has been a sight better than the percentage that Stamkos. Point production, though? Connolly hasn't scored a point | 809 |
Johnny's places hotel sidekick front and center
By Nicholas Upton
Publication: Franchise Times
Go to website to read entire article
Hotel restaurants can be grim. Nearly every traveler has spent a reluctant meal in a dim hotel sports bar, munching on fried frozen food, tainted by the chlorine smell from down the hall. But some of the most successful hoteliers have begun to see that big open space next to the registration desk as a way to entice guests beyond prices and pools.
Mike Whalen, hotel franchisee and the franchisor behind Johnny's Italian Steakhouse, sees the hotel as the business superhero. And every hero needs a good sidekick.
"It's like Batman and Robin," said Whalen. "I think it's the biggest point of differentiation in hotels today—everybody has good rooms and a nice bed. The real point of differentiation is the restaurant and the bar."
Whalen, who owns more than 40 hotels and restaurants under the umbrella Heart of America, said despite the general attitude toward hotel restaurants, the first Johnny's franchise became the top restaurant in town.
"It's the number one restaurant in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, doing about $3 million a year in the new Holiday Inn, and it's a hot place to eat," said Whalen.
The eight-location concept borrows from Italian and typical steakhouse fare, featuring pasta, several fish dishes and various cuts of steak, of course. Whalen says a highly finished atmosphere attracts people from across demographics, for a price that falls below a Ruth's Chris but comes in a little more than Outback Steakhouse.
"Johnny's is kind of a timeless thing," said Whalen. "There's nothing faddy about it, but it's age neutral. Prom kids like Johnny's and old people like Johnny's." The clean design also brings in more women than other steakhouses that Whalen said have "a little too much testosterone."
The idea was inspired by a bygone Des Moines, Iowa, speakeasy called Johnny's Vet's Club that shut down in the 1990s.
"When I had to come up with a restaurant concept for one of our new hotels, I said, 'I've always wanted to do a Johnny's steakhouse,'" said Whalen. "We called the family and she said that Johnny would be proud, so with her blessing, we started Johnny's."
Whalen, who also started the non-franchised chain The Machine Shed, said startup costs are nominally more than a generic hotel sports bar at about $1 million, and stand-alone locations (of which there are three so far) come in at $3 million plus real estate costs. Each location ranges from 5,000 to 7,800 square feet.
Heart of America began franchising in 2002 with the Eau Claire location, and Whalen plans for another five or six restaurants in 2016, at a 50-50 corporate and franchised split. He said franchising Johnny's was a big decision for the seasoned franchisee, and it wouldn't have happened had hoteliers and other entrepreneurs not asked for it regularly.
<|fim_middle|> to provide high value for franchisees, something he takes seriously after years as a franchisee himself. He said there are two lessons he takes to heart.
"One, standards should be imposed on a franchise for a good reason, not just a power and authority reason," said Whalen. "And second, you need to pick franchisees that are in the business mentally, not as an investment."
That, he said, keeps the brand standards department from becoming simply the B.S. department. | "To franchise well is a hell of a commitment, if you're really going to do it right and you're really going to have the support structure to provide a platform and a foundation of success to a franchisee," said Whalen. "We decided that we wanted to make that commitment."
He said the same group that supports all the company's concepts was well suited to support new franchised locations. Aside from a robust web-based training portal, Heart of America's strong suit is supply chain management that aims to keep the various concepts' food quality high compared to competitors, and maintains healthy margin.
Whalen's strategy for growth came from some advice he got from a boating instructor: go slow like a pro. He said the adage has helped him hold out for only the most passionate restaurateurs.
Having a successful hotel empire doesn't hurt, and it means he can be careful about selling franchises and still have plenty of cash flow to help support the nascent franchising infrastructure.
Ultimately, Whalen wants | 202 |
Bred by Samuel Darragh McGredy IV (1998).
Introduced in New Zealand by McGredy Roses International (New Zealand) in 1998.
Large size, glossy, Mid-Green leaves with Red juvenile foliage.
Bushy upright shrub. Dead head as necessary. Prune to 4 inches (10 cms) in mid February.
"An excellent new variety from Sam McGredy and winner of the 'Rose of the Year' trials in 2002. The beautifully shaped, burnt orange flowers stand out well from the glossy, bright green foliage. With a lovely perfume and good vase life, the blooms are excellent for cutting. Good, sturdy vigorous growth 3.5 ft" from David Austin Roses.
"Apricot or apricot blend. Mild, strong, fruity fragrance. 26 to 40 petals. Average diameter 4.25". Medium bloom form. Blooms in flushes throughout the season.
According to the New Zealand Plant Variety Rights (PVR) web page, application for a PVR Grant for this rose was made May 25, 1998 (Application No. ROS679). The breeder's Reference for this rose is Macamster. The New Zealand Trade Name is 'Matawhero Magic'." from Help Me Find in America.
"Though it is a McCredy rose from New Zealand, which is not exactly a desert climate, it holds up to moderate heat, and repeat blooms rapidly even in summer. One of the drawbacks is that you must be quick about your deadheading--otherwise you get a lot of flowers, but all on very short stems, and of shrunken size. I cut back a little harder after each round of flowers to keep the plant under 6 feet (2 m) in height and the quality of the flowers high. This increases the time between blooms, but I get a better looking plant over our long, long growing season. This plant is really good about holding on to its foliage, and foliage appears from bottom to top, no bare ankles here." from Piece of Eden, who practice "TO BOLDY GROW WHERE NO MAN HAD LAWN BEFORE".
"To kick off 2013, we feature something slightly different both in terms of colour and fragrance but well worth growing.
Matawhero Magic is a Hybrid Tea rose that has been around for a while now and is a good all-round performer. An upright growing plant of good health, it will find its way into any garden situation and also does well as a standard.
The blooms, while not large, come on good stems for picking and can be best described as a bronze orange colour – fit it in with yellow and orange roses for best effect. Burying your nose into the blooms reveal a strong musky perfume that delights.
Named for Matawhero Winery near Gisborne and bred by none other than Sam McGredy from two of his well known roses Spek's Centennial and New Year. It is known overseas as 'Top Notch' and 'Simply the Best'." from New Zealand Rose Society.
Matthews Nurseries Limited in New Zealand .
Burgundy Juvenile Foliage aging to Mid-Green Middle-aged Foliage before becoming Dark Green Mature Foliage from Bowes-Lyon Rose Garden at Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) in Wisley. Photo by Chris Garnons-Williams within 3-5 June 2013.
Spring Form in the middle behind the black label from Bowes-Lyon Rose Garden at Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) in Wisley. Photo by Chris Garnons-Williams on 25 April 2013.
Due to this Rose Plant Label being so low, then it became hidden by the growth of the plants in front. This meant that when this rose was in flower, it could not be identified.
This rose label as shown in the previous image is the same size in width and height of label as all the other black plant labels at Wisley. You will note that this plant label is some distance from the viewer and that although visible; its written text is too small to read. There is plenty of information indicating the relationship of the size, format, colour of text with its colour of background to be able to produce that label in a valid format for the VISITOR. The RHS garden staff are allowed to walk over the flower bed to be able to read this label but the VISITORS are not. I must admit that I used to gain the idea that the Royal Horticultural Society was aimimg to educate its staff and its visitors at Wisley instead of acting<|fim_middle|> valid label.
I have seen in September 2014 that some of the plant labels in the raised beds in the Alpine House have been placed in front instead of behind its relevant pot. This means that the visitor who is less than 3 feet (90 cms) away can both read the label and photo it to identify that Alpine Plant. I am grateful that at least part of what I have stated in this website previously has been acted on for the benefit of the visitor.
Summer Flowers from Bowes-Lyon Rose Garden at Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) in Wisley. Photo by Chris Garnons-Williams on 1 July 2013.
Label from previous photo from Bowes-Lyon Rose Garden at Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) in Wisley. Photo by Chris Garnons-Williams on 25 April 2013. | as a business in order to make a profit.
signwriter cannot record when each label was produced with its own unique identity. Then if that label is damaged or it becomes unreadable due to weathering, then the RHS member of staff who sees that can indicate that to the signwriter. A new sign is produced and that member of RHS staff - who reported the damaged or missing label - replaces it within a week.
signwriter cannot see the label in-situ when installed and when its plant is in flower to validate its position and visibility throughout the growing seasons.
the planter create a record in a database that also indicates when it was planted and when it was removed with photos identifying its plant state and location each year.
This record could also include maintenance and pruning requirements so that the students who train for a year at Wisley correctly prune or maintain a plant and RHS members can follow that same advice.
Then, the labels that only state Rhododendron are not allowed to be visible for many years - either because nobody has a clue what this Rhodendron cultivar is or nobody knew when it was planted many years ago. If the plant cannot be fully labeled, then either remove the label or the plant is replaced with one that can have its own | 254 |
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