text:
User talk:24.18.132.13

Welcome

Hello, and welcome to Wikisource! Thank you for your contributions. I hope you like the place and decide to stay. Here are a few good links for newcomers:

 * Help pages
 * Style Guide
 * Inclusion policy

You are welcome to continue editing articles without logging in, but you may wish to  [ create an account] . Doing so is free, requires no personal information, and provides several benefits. For one thing, if you continue to edit without a username, your IP address is used to publicly identify you.

In any case, I hope you enjoy donating your time to grow the Wikisource library that is free for everyone to use! In discussions, please sign your comments using four tildes ( ~ ); this will automatically produce your IP address (or username if you're logged in) and the date. If you need help, ask me on my talk page, or ask your question here (click  [ edit] ) and place  before your question. Again, welcome! — billinghurst  sDrewth  10:25, 18 November 2010 (UTC)

Warning of acceptable content
Adding that sort of link will get you blocked, as it is a clear breach of Wikisource's acceptable use. It is neither helpful nor relevant to the discussion of adminship, blocks of users or other matters discussed on WS:AN. — billinghurst  sDrewth  07:46, 31 December 2010 (UTC)
 * Billinghurst, you asked me to provide my name, stating that you would not take me seriously as an anonymous IP. I did so, and went further by providing my connection to this issue. Read the story - not only does it provide background to the entire discussion - background which, I may add, is public information, in the press, and will be found anyway by anyone googling keywords already being discussed - but it gives my name as well.
 * You wrote, "To the IP contributors, I will read your comments and the value of your opinion, and I can understand that you like the anonymity to throw barbed comments, however, you will need to note that for me it gets less respect than if you put your name to your voice."
 * Let me predict right now that you will change your tune completely, and profess outrage that names should be put to your voices.24.18.132.13 07:55, 31 December 2010 (UTC)
 * Gday, thanks for the response. The posting of the url is still in breach of our policy, and simply "two wrongs don't make a right". My task as an admin is to look to the principles and policy of the site, and with the guidance of the rules to uphold the principles. I believe that I did that. I was aware of the story, and read it recently along with a lot of other history that has come out of the woodwork post this matter. When I saw your name, I understood the personal nature of the matter and the angst that I can see it has brought. I may have been too literal with the word name, as I meant account name, however, your real name does lend to the impact upon you. I am hoping that I can follow a respectful debate that draws out reasonable and practicable solutions. — billinghurst  sDrewth  13:46, 31 December 2010 (UTC)
 * Thanks, Billinghurst. I'm too exhausted to write much tonight, but your invitation is a welcome surprise, and appreciated.24.18.132.13 07:14, 1 January 2011 (UTC)

From Billinghurst
Mr. U. People at this wiki are here to contribute things to our library, in their own time, in a way that they think adds value to the site. They are not here for your entertainment nor to have their wiki history dug through, nor to have value judgments on their life from a very one-dimensional perspective. We don't import wikidrama, and we haven't imported yours. So can I ask that if you are here please look to add works that add to the library, anything else is probably going to look like a waste of time. If that is not your purpose for your edits, then maybe you can look elsewhere for your entertainment. Thanks. — billinghurst  sDrewth  06:20, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * I thought things had calmed down, honestly. Please see my response to Hesperian. I apologized to Cygnis, but evidently that just freaked her out more.
 * I'm not sure what value judgments you're talking about, but whatever.
 * (I've changed your section title, because it very falsely alleges criminal behavior.)24.18.132.13 06:26, 2 January 2011 (UTC)

24 hour block
I am not sure how you can see those contributions as positive and helpful to the debate. The accusations simply have to stop. I have placed a 24 hour block, and we will see whether you are able to address the matter differently tomorrow. This page is still open for edits. — billinghurst  sDrewth  08:24, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * I don't really care; it's just a number anyway. Though I will point out that "harassment" has a legal meaning as well. I have never "stalked" nor "harassed" any Wikimedia contributor (or anyone else,) except according to the novel meanings you've attached to those terms and the self-serving ways you've deployed them. It remains really puzzling to me the way you guys dish it out quite liberally while only very rarely reflecting upon on your words.
 * Hostility is as hostility does; I spent the past 24 hours trying to simmer things down, but Cygnis and Hesperian wouldn't have it. If this is the red meat you have to throw them to sate their need for a successful iteration of the conflict-victory cycle, then well played.
 * I'd be interested to hear Jaydvb's opinion of my proposal at User talk:Longfellow. You may think it a bad idea, but this is what I've thought for years now. A ban is stupid, because he'll just return, very likely with several more nyms and an evolved approach. Anyway, we want his contributions.
 * You know the old saying about the man who only has the hammer, and every problem looking to him like a nail? Funny, that applies to sysops and me as much as it does to sysops and him; though the circumstances couldn't be more different, we are at least both not nails. Some element of persuasion is in both instances required.24.18.132.13 08:41, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * Thank you for your feedback and your enlightment about the means I use to resolve matters. I will obviously have to bow to your superior intellect, your superior people management and your vast issue resolution skills. I am just nothingness, and I will have to be content to just maintain that level of inadequacy. You will excuse me if I then have to retire to another part of the wiki to lick my wounds. — billinghurst  sDrewth  09:43, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * Sheesh, what is wrong with you people? People management? Obviously not. I wish I could wave some magic wand to make you all act reasonably. Without one, I'm stumped, and feeling more like Moulton must feel than I'd like to. How would you ever get by without those little buttons, which blow other people's voices completely out of the water, instantly, with no opportunity for appeal? Try that in public if you don't like what someone's saying, put a gag over someone's mouth and try to throw them out of the room. Preferably someone stronger than yourself (but of course the key is to pick on only those weaker) - see how that works out for you. You really think that's "civil?" It is to laugh! Thanks for allowing me to vent on my user talk, I guess.24.18.132.13 10:11, 2 January 2011 (UTC)

To note that I have moved the discussion about the proposal to ban you from English Wikisource to a subpage of Scriptorium Scriptorium/Proposed community ban of Proabivouac — billinghurst  sDrewth  10:25, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * So the ban discussion is to proceed while I am unable to defend myself? Shouldn't there be a moratorium on comments until I return?24.18.132.13 10:29, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * Yours means of 'defense' is a subject of that discussion, and one of the causes of your ban elsewhere, so no. cygnis insignis 10:37, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * Cygnis, are you witness, prosecutor, judge, or all three?24.18.132.13 10:39, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * None of the above, is that one of the few things on which you are uncertain? I now have a large investment in finding a positive outcome that benefits the community, and I was flattered to see my sentiments on self-interest echoed in your hypocritical inversion as an accusation. I think this is yet another puerile attempt to undermine open procedures, which is your craft and talent, and that you realise if these matters are well resolved your slim claim to fame/notoriety starts disappearing. Anyway, do you want me to copy to that accusatory question to AN or the new subpage? cygnis insignis 11:21, 2 January 2011 (UTC)

 * It is only a 24-hour block; things do not move very fast here so you will certainly have a chance to have your voice heard. If there are any comments you immediately want added to the other page just make a note here and I will transfer it so long as you refrain from talking about the meatspace identities of Wikisource contributors.  What might be more helpful than continuing the same tactics which led to this block, would be if you explained why it is important to you that you not be banned.--Birgitte SB  17:14, 2 January 2011 (UTC)
 * I've made constructive edits to Wikisource in the past, without any controversy. My account was globally locked by someone on meta, making it impossible to contribute here or on Dutch Wiktionary as a username. At most, I'd be an occasional IP contributor, as my edit in November.
 * It feels stupid to have to beg to be allowed to volunteer for any project, and unlike Wikipedia, where one might seek the (transient) pleasure of having subjects presented in what one feels to be the most appropriate way, the work here is mostly just that - work, made significantly more unappealing by the fact that I can't take credit for it.
 * The main reason I don't wish to be banned is because it's insulting. And isn't that its point? Seeing, after all, that I already can't contribute from my user account, and I won't have this IP for much longer.
 * I would have participated further in discussions about governance here - which could bear some improvement, to say the least - but this vision of a place in Wikiland which administrators don't cover for one another and their favorites while using sysop powers to bully and silence others will remain, I'm afraid, inevitably a fantasy so long as sysops are in charge at all.
 * It’s exhausting to argue with a tag team of mutual backscratchers in a discussion that is, both socially and technically, hopelessly rigged. Having made my point, I’m inclined to find something else to do, if you’ll allow it.24.18.132.13 00:51, 3 January 2011 (UTC)
 * I am trying to understand you, so please correct me if I made an mistakes. 1) You don't wish to be insulted with an outstanding ban and/or ban discussion here. 2) You are willing go away having now made your point as well as you think possibly can given the environmental conditions here.  If that is correct I would be happy the courtesy blank the subpage on banning you and remove the pointer there from the Scriptorium, leaving any currently outstanding comments you have made on the issue elsewhere in place; provided that you do desist from posting on en.WS and refrain from contacting any en.WS contributors off-wiki who have not explicitly invited you to do so.  If when the ban discussion of Longfellow begins you, see something that we are greatly missing; you may email my yahhoo account with the username Birgitte_SB and I will make sure the substantive points are made public although may not use your exact wording.  Does that proposal address all your concerns?
 * It does. Thanks, Birgitte.24.18.132.13 01:51, 3 January 2011 (UTC)
 * OK I am going to implement it.--Birgitte SB  01:52, 3 January 2011 (UTC)

title: User talk:24.18.132.13


text:
Tecumseh’s speech to General Procter (September 1813)

Father!—Listen to your children! You have them now all before you.

The war before this, our British father gave the hatchet to his red children, when our old chiefs were alive. They are now dead. In that war our father was thrown flat on his back by the Americans, and our father took them by the hand without our knowledge. We are afraid that our father will do so again at this time.

Summer before last, when I came forward with my red brethren, and was ready to take up the hatchet in favor of our British father, we were told not to be in a hurry—that he had not yet determined to fight the Americans.

Listen!—When war was declared, our father stood up and gave us the tomahawk, and told us that he was then ready to strike the Americans- - that he wanted our assistance—and that he would certainly get us our lands back, which the Americans had taken from us.

Listen!—You told us, at that time, to bring forward our families to this place, and we did so. You also promised to take care of them—they should want for nothing, while the men would go and fight the enemy—that we need not trouble ourselves about the enemy's garrison—that we knew nothing about them—and that our father would attend to that part of the business. You also told your red children that you would take good care of your garrison here, which made our hearts glad.

Listen!—When we were last at the Rapids it is true we gave you little assistance. It is hard to fight people who live like ground-hogs.

Father, listen!—Our fleet has gone out; we know they have fought; we have heard the great guns; but we know nothing of what has happened to our father with one arm. Our ships have gone one way, and we are much astonished to see our father tying up every thing and preparing to run away the other, without letting his red children know what his intentions are. You always told us to remain here, and take care of our lands; it made our hearts glad to hear that was your wish. Our great father, the king, is the head, and you represent him. You always told us you would never draw your foot off British ground. But now, father, we see you are drawing back, and we are sorry to see our father doing so without seeing the enemy. We must compare our father's conduct to a fat dog, that carries its tail upon its back, but when affrighted, it drops it between its legs and runs off.

Father, listen!—The Americans have not yet defeated us by land—neither are we sure that they have done so by water—we therefore wish to remain here, and fight our enemy, should they make their appearance. If they defeat us, we will then retreat with our father.

At the battle of the Rapids, last war, the Americans certainly defeated us; and when we returned to our father's fort, at that place the gates were shut against us. We were afraid that it would now be the case; but instead of that, we now see our British father preparing to march out of his garrison.

Father !—You have got the arms and ammunition which our great father sent for his red children. If you have an idea of going away, give them to us, and you may go and welcome for us. Our lives are in the hands of the Great Spirit. We are determined to defend our lands, and if it be his will, we wish to leave our bones upon them.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Schmoller, Gustav

SCHMOLLER, GUSTAV (1838-      ), German political economist, was born at Heilbronn on the 24th of June 1838. He studied political science, philosophy and history at the university

of Tübingen from 1857 to 1861, when he obtained an appointment at the Württemberg Statistical Department. In 1864 Schmoller became extraordinary — and in the following year, ordinary — professor of political economy and science at Halle, was transferred in a like capacity to Strasburg in 1872 and finally in 1882 to Berlin. In 1884 he was admitted a member of the Prussian Staatsrath, in 1887 a member of the Prussian Academy of Sciences, and in 1899 was called to the Prussian Herrenhaus (Upper Chamber) as representative of the university of Berlin. Schmoller is famous for his researches in the field of the history of political economy and is one of the founders of the Verein für Social Politik (Social Political Society).


text:
Jacobi's letter on Acaranga controversy of meat-eating

Dear Sir, Your letter dated 10-1-1928 duly at hand. I have carefully gone over the passage of the Acaranga Sutra II 1.10.6 which refers to the eating of 'meat' and 'fish' by Jaina monks or nuns. The result at which I arrived forms the subject of this letter.

Let me begin with the origin of the controversy in about AD 1900. In my translation of the Acaranga Sutra (S.B.E., vol. XXII, Oxford, 1884) I have rendered in the passage under consideration, mamsa and maccha by 'meat' and 'fish'; for, such is the original or primary meaning (mukhyartha) of mamsa and matsya. The Jainas took offence at this rendering and complained about it to Professor Max Muller, the editor of the S.B.E. Series.

In order to justify my translation, I tried to make it probable that in ancient times the prohibition of animal food may not have been so rigorous as it notoriously was in more modern times. But my suggestion has not been accepted, and Mr Khimji Hirji Kayani communicated to me the following explanation of the passage in question by the high priest of the Jain community of Bombay:

 * "A monk or a nun on a begging tour is prohibited from receiving conserve of fruits containing a large portion of bark or an exterior covering of a fruit, and if inadvertently received then the monk or nun should bury underground the remaining portion of such conserve which cannot be eaten etc."

A similar explanation was given to me by several yatis on my visit to India in the cold season of 1913-14. I duly took notice of their interpretation which I promised to publish when a second edition of my translation of the Acaranga Sutra should be issued, but I refrained from further discussing or disputing the point, and there the matter rested.

Now, the point to be decided is whether mamsa and matsya can be proved to have the meaning conserve of fruits assigned to them by the orthodox interpreters of the passage under consideration. In proof of this assertion no evidence has been brought forward either from Sanskrit Literature or from glossaries (kosas). It is true that matsya-phala and mamsa-phala are names of certain plants, but not the words matsya and mamsa by themselves; and even that meaning would not suit the requirement of our case. Mamsa and maccha occur only once more in the Pindesana (1,9, 3) and there they must be taken in their primary sense of 'meat' and 'fish.' That passage has reference to a meal which is being prepared for a guest or a sick person. After the usual opening words we read mamsam va maccham va majjijjamanam pahae. The attribute majjijjamanutti "being fried or roasted" shows that by mamsa and maccha 'conserve of fruits' cannot be meant. The householder, who makes those preparations for the reception of a guest, need not be a Jaina layman; it is, therefore, not to be wondered at that he has meat or fish roasted for the guest. It will thus be seen that the exegetical rules of philology oblige us to attribute to the words mamsa and maccha, in the doubtful passage, their primary meaning 'meat' and 'fish.' But how are we to reconcile this result with the prohibition of animal-food? Even if it be granted that this prohibition had not been as strictly observed of old as in historical times, still we cannot suppose that at any time a Jaina monk should explicitly admit that under certain conditions he was ready to accept as alms 'meat' and 'fish'; for, that would be the meaning of the passage if understood in its literal sense. I think I can suggest a way out of the dilemma, without either putting an inadmissible practice to the ancient Jaina monks. For, two Sanskrit passages, one in the Mahabhasya of Patanjali and the other in the Tatparya-tika of Vacaspati-misra seem to me to throw some light on the quotation in hand. In discussing a Varttika ad Panini (III, 3, 9) Patanjali illustrates the meaning of nantariyakatva by the following example: 'kascit mamsarthi matsyan sa-sakalan sa-kantakan aharati nantariyakatvat, sa yavad adeyam tavad adaya sakala-kantakany utsrjati evam ihapi' , etc. (The same passage is repeated verbatim in the Mahabhasya ad IV. 1,92).

Vacaspatimisra in commenting on Nyayasutra IV 1, 54 says: 'tasman mamsarthiva kantakan uddhrtya mamsam asnann anartham kantaka-janyam apnotity evam prajnavam duhkham uddhrtyendriyadi-sadhanam suklam moksayate. 'Patanjali and Vacaspatimisra are separated by nine centuries: during all this time (and probably much longer) the standard example of an object containing the substance which is wanted in intimate connection (nantariyaka) with much that must be rejected, was 'fish' of which the flesh may be eaten, but the scales and bones must be taken out. By being generally understood in this way, and having become proverbial, as it were, the expression 'fish with many bones' came to be properly used, I assume, to denote metaphorically any substance similarly constituted. In this metaphorical sense, I believe, bahu-atthiyena mamsena va macchena va bahu-kanthaena has been used in the passage of Acharariga Sutra under consideration. A close examination of that passage is very much in favour of my supposition. It runs thus:
 * se bhikkhu va Java samane siya nam paro bahu-atthiena mamsena macchena va bahu-kanthaena utvanimantejja | ausanto samana abhikankhasi bahu-atthiyam mamsam padigahettae | etappagaram nighosatn socca nisamma se puvvam-eva aloejja | ausoti va bhaini ti va no khalu kappai me bahu-atthiyam mamsam paddigahettae | abhikankhasi me daum javatiyam tavatiyam poggalam daiayahi, ma atthiyaim | etc.

The layman asks the monk whether he will accept 'meat with many bones'. Now if the alms-giver had actually offered meat, the answer of the monk would of a certainty have been: 'No, I am no flesh-eater.' Instead of this refusal he says: 'It is against our rules to accept "meat with many bones": "if you desire to make me a gift, give me as much of the substance as you like, but not the bones."' It is worthy of remark that the monk makes use of the (popular) phrase 'meat with many bones' when declining the offer, but not when he states that he will accept; there he uses not a metaphorical expression, but the direct designation poggala, substance. This change of appellation is due to the consciousness that the first expression is metaphorical and open to misunderstanding. This meaning of the passage is, therefore, that a monk should not accept as alms any substance of which only a part can be eaten and a great part must be rejected. The same principle governs the preceding paragraphs of the 10th uddesao. In 4, some such substances are mentioned by name viz. different parts of sugarcane, etc. and in 5 we find mamsa and maccha which expression, if I am right, comprises all the remaining substances of a similar description which have not been mentioned in the preceding paragraph.

Bonn, yours faithfully,

14 February 1928. H. JACOBI


text:
1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Serao, Matilda

SERAO, MATILDA (1856-      ), Italian novelist, was born at Patras in Greece. Her father was an Italian, a political emigrant, and her mother a Greek. She began by becoming a schoolmistress at Naples, and afterwards she described those years of laborious poverty in the preface to a book of short stories called Leggende Napolitane (1881). But attention was first attracted to her name by her Novelle, published in a paper of Rocco de Zerbi's, and later by her first novel, Fantasia (1883), which definitely established her as a writer full of feeling and analytical subtlety. She spent the years between 1880 and 1886 in Rome, where she published her next five volumes of short stories and novels, all dealing with ordinary Italian, and especially Roman, life, and distinguished by great accuracy of observation and depth of insight: Cuore Inferno (1881), Fior di Passione (1883), La Conquista di Roma (1885), La Virtu di Checchina (1884), and Piccole Anime (1883). With her husband, Epoardo Scarfoglio, she founded Il Corriere di Roma, the first Italian attempt to model a daily journal on the lines of the Parisian press. The paper was short-lived, and when it was given up Matilda Serao established herself in Naples, where she edited Il Corriere de Napoli, and in 1891 founded Il Mattino, which became the most important and most widely read daily paper of southern Italy. But the stress of a journalistic career in no way limited her literary activity; between 1890 and 1902 she produced Paese di Cuccagna, Ventre di Napoli, Addio Amore, All' Erta Sentinella, Castigo, La Ballerina, Suor Giovanna della Croce, Paese di Gesu, novels in which the character of the people is rendered with minute sensitive power and sympathetic breadth of spirit. Most of these have been translated into English.


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Sturgis

STURGIS, Mich., city in Saint Joseph County, on the Grand Rapids and Indiana and the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern railroads. It is 36 miles southeast of Kalamazoo and has manufactures of furniture, plumbers' woodwork, shears, a foundry, etc. Pop. 3,000.


text: Author:Cargill Gilston Knott

title: Author:Cargill Gilston Knott


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Sturluson, Snorri

STURLUSON, stoor'lā-sŏn, Snorri, Icelandic author and politician: b. 1178; d. Reykholt, 22 Sept. 1241. He was well educated in Scandinavian history, mythology and poetry. He soon rendered himself popular by his bravery on the field and eloquence in the assemblies of the people and was elected by the unanimous voice of the people supreme judge of the island. In 1213 he composed his first poem which became widely known, a panegyric of Hako IV, king of Norway. In 1218 he paid a visit to Norway, where he was well received by Jarl Skule, who loaded him with rich presents and high dignities on the eve of his return to Iceland in 1220. In 1237, being forced by feuds to leave Iceland, he made a second voyage to Norway, where he was once more warmly welcomed by Skule, now become duke. Snorri composed some poetical pieces warmly laudatory of his patron, and promising him success in the struggle going on between him and Hako V. That prince forbade Snorri to return to his native land, but the order was unheeded, and Sturluson, being informed of the decline of the power of his enemies, returned to Iceland in 1239, and was there murdered. His principal work, which he completed about 1230, is the ‘Heimskringla’ (Circle of the World), in which he records the lives of the legendary and historical kings of

Norway down to the death of Magnus Erlingsson in 1177. It was translated into Danish by Peder Clausson, and published in Copenhagen by Olaf Worm in 1633. A recent edition is that by Jónson (1893 onward). The work has also been translated into German, Norwegian, Swedish, Latin and English (by S. Laing, 1844; new ed. by R. B. Anderson, 1889; by W. Morris and E. Magnússon, 1893-94). He composed numerous eulogistic poems on the princes and jarls whose courts he had visited; and wrote, it is believed, the first part (‘Gylfa-Ginning’) of the ‘Snorra-Edda,’ or ‘Younger Edda.’ See.


text:
The Flying Trapeze

Once I was happy but now I'm forlorn, Like an old coat that is tattered and torn, Left on this wide world to fret and to mourn, Betray'd by a maid in her teens.

The girl that I lov'd she was handsome, I tried all I knew her to please. But I could not please her one quarter so well, Like that man upon the Trapeze.

CHORUS. He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease, A daring young man on the flying Trapeze, His movements were graceful All girls he could please, And my love he purloin'd away.

This young man by name was "Signor Bona Slang," Tall, big and handsome as well made as Chang, Where're he appeared the Hall loudly rang With ovation from all people there. He'd smile from the bar on the people below And one night he smil'd on my love. She win'd back at him and she shouted "Bravo!" As he hung by his nose up above!

CHORUS. He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease, A daring young man on the flying Trapeze, His movements were graceful All girls he could please, And my love he purloin'd away.

One night I as usual went to her dear home, Found there her father and mother alone, I ask'd for my love and soon they made known, To my horror, that she'd run away! She'd pack'd up her box and elop'd in the night, With him with the greatest of ease, From two stories high, he had lower'd her down To the ground on his flying Trapeze!

CHORUS. He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease, A daring young man on the flying Trapeze, His movements were graceful All girls he could please, And my love he purloin'd away.

Some months after this I went to a Hall, Was greatly surprised to see on the wall A bill in red letters which did my heart gall, That she was appearing with him. He taught her gymnastics and dress'd her in tights To help him to live at his ease, And made her assume a masculine name And now she goes on the Trapeze!

CHORUS. She floats through the air with the greatest of ease, You'd think her a man on the flying Trapeze, She does all the work while he takes his ease, And that's what's become of my love.

title: The Flying Trapeze


text:
User talk:79.74.28.166

Welcome

Hello, and welcome to Wikisource! Thank you for your contributions. I hope you like the place and decide to stay. Here are a few good links for newcomers:

 * Help pages
 * Style Guide
 * Inclusion policy

You are welcome to continue editing articles without logging in, but you may wish to  [ create an account] . Doing so is free, requires no personal information, and provides several benefits. For one thing, if you continue to edit without a username, your IP address is used to publicly identify you.

In any case, I hope you enjoy donating your time to grow the Wikisource library that is free for everyone to use! In discussions, please sign your comments using four tildes ( ~ ); this will automatically produce your IP address (or username if you're logged in) and the date. If you need help, ask me on my talk page, or ask your question here (click  [ edit] ) and place  before your question. Again, welcome! — billinghurst  sDrewth  12:21, 18 November 2010 (UTC)

title: User talk:79.74.28.166


text:
User talk:70.149.68.87

Welcome

Hello, and welcome to Wikisource! Thank you for your contributions. I hope you like the place and decide to stay. Here are a few good links for newcomers:

 * Help pages
 * Style Guide
 * Inclusion policy

You are welcome to continue editing articles without logging in, but you may wish to  [ create an account] . Doing so is free, requires no personal information, and provides several benefits. For one thing, if you continue to edit without a username, your IP address is used to publicly identify you.

In any case, I hope you enjoy donating your time to grow the Wikisource library that is free for everyone to use! In discussions, please sign your comments using four tildes ( ~ ); this will automatically produce your IP address (or username if you're logged in) and the date. If you need help, ask me on my talk page, or ask your question here (click  [ edit] ) and place  before your question. Again, welcome! — billinghurst  sDrewth  12:21, 18 November 2010 (UTC)

title: User talk:70.149.68.87


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greenough, George Bellas


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Sturm, Jacques-Charles-Francois

STURM, stoorm, Jacques-Charles-Francois, French mathematician: b. Geneva, 29 Sept. 1803; d. Paris, 18 Dec. 1855. He studied at the Geneva College, passing the course before his 14th year, to enter the Academy course. He became, teacher to the son of Madame de Staël. In 1827 he was awarded the grand prize in mathematics and by 1829 he had propounded his great theorem “the solution of numercial equations,” which has done so much to assist in the advance of scientific research. He was successively appointed professor of special mathematics at the Rollin College (1830); was made member of the Académie des Sciences (1836), succeeding Ampère, and in 1840 he was made professor of analysis in the École Polytechnique and professor of mechanics to the faculty of sciences. Consult Liouville, ‘Discourse prononcé sur la tombe de Sturm,’ in Siècle (1855); Prouhet's ‘Notice’ in Nouvelles Annales Mathematiques (1856).


text: Talk:The Flying Trapeze

title: Talk:The Flying Trapeze


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greenway, Oswald


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greenwell, Dora


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greenwell, Leonard


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Sturm, Johannes

STURM, or STURMIUS, Johannes, German educator: b. near Cologne, 1 Oct. 1507; d. 3 March 1589. In 1537 he founded the gymnasium in Strassburg which attained world-wide celebrity. He was generally regarded as the greatest educator connected with the Reformed Church. Sturm's ideal in education was “to direct the aspiration of the scholars toward God, to develop their intelligence, and to render them useful citizens by teaching them the skill to communicate their thoughts and sentiments with persuasive effect.” In carrying out this ideal Sturm showed his superiority by his judicious gradation of the course of study, and by his novel and attractive methods of instruction. His influence has been potent in the German system of secondary education down to our own day.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greenwich, Duke of


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greenwood, James


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greenwood, John (d.1593)


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Sturm, Julius

STURM, Julius, German lyric poet: b. Köstritz in Reuss, 21 July 1816; d. Leipzig, 2 May 1896. He studied theology at Jena and was pastor at Göschitz, 1851-57 and at Köstritz, 1857-85. His poems have a decidedly religious or nationalistic trend. Among his published volumes are ‘Two Roses; or, the Canticle of Love’ (1854); ‘Devout Songs and Poems’ (1858); ‘Israelite Songs’ (3d ed., 1881); ‘Poems of Battle and Victory’ (1870); ‘Mirror of the Time in Fables’ (1872); ‘To the Lord my Song’ (1884); ‘Palm and Crown’ (1887); ‘In Joy and in Sorrow’ (1896); ‘Für das Haus’; ‘Lieder und Bilder’; ‘Kampf und Liegesgedichte’; ‘Spiegel der Zeit in Fabeln’; ‘Kinderleben’; ‘Immergrün’; ‘Natur, Liebe, Vaterland.’ Consult the biographies by Hepding (Giessen 1896) and Hoffman (Hamburg 1898).


text:
"We Crown Thee King"

 * The Modern Review/Volume 7/Number 1/"We Crown Thee King"
 * The Hungry Stones and Other Stories/"We Crown Thee King"

title: "We Crown Thee King"


text: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXVI

title: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXVI


text: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXVII

title: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXVII


text: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXVIII

title: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXVIII


text: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXIX

title: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXIX


text: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXX

title: The Yellow Claw/Chapter XXX


text:
Page:Yellow Claw 1920.djvu/259

NUMBER of visitors were sprinkled about Olaf van Noord’s large and dirty studio, these being made up for the most part of those weird and nondescript enthusiasts who seek to erect an apocryphal Montmartre in the plains of Soho. One or two ordinary mortals, representing the Press, leavened the throng, but the entire gathering—“advanced” and unenlightened alike—seemed to be drawn to a common focus: a large canvas placed advantageously in the southeast corner of the studio, where it enjoyed all the benefit of a pure and equably suffused light.

Seated apart from his worshipers upon a little sketching stool, and handling a remarkably long, amber cigarette-holder with much grace, was Olaf van Noord. He had hair of so light a yellow as sometimes to appear white, worn very long, brushed back from his brow and cut squarely all around behind, lending him a medieval appearance. He wore a slight mustache carefully pointed; and his scanty vandyke beard could not entirely conceal the weakness of his chin. His complexion had the color and general appearance of drawing-paper, and in his large blue eyes was an eerie hint of sightlessness.

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 He was attired in a light tweed suit cut in an American pattern, and out from his low collar flowed a black French knot.

Olaf van Noord rose to meet Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland, advancing across the floor with the measured gait of a tragic actor. He greeted them aloofly, and a little negro boy proffered tiny cups of China tea. Denise Ryland distended her nostrils as her gaze swept the picture-covered walls; but she seemed to approve of the tea.

The artist next extended to them an ivory box containing little yellow-wrapped cigarettes. Helen Cumberly smilingly refused, but Denise Ryland took one of the cigarettes, sniffed at it superciliously—and then replaced it in the box.

“It has a most…egregiously horrible…odor,” she commented.

“They are a special brand,” explained Olaf van Noord, distractedly, “which I have imported for me from Smyrna. They contain a small percentage of opium.”

“Opium!” exclaimed Denise Ryland, glaring at the speaker and then at Helen Cumberly, as though the latter were responsible in some way for the vices of the painter.

“Yes,” he said, reclosing the box, and pacing somberly to the door to greet a new arrival.

“Did you ever in all your life,” said Denise Ryland, glancing about her, “see such an exhibition…of nightmares?”

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text:
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 Certainly, the criticism was not without justification; the dauby-looking oil-paintings, incomprehensible water-colors, and riotous charcoal sketches which formed the mural decoration of the studio were distinctly “advanced.” But, since the center of interest seemed to be the large canvas on the easel, the two moved to the edges of the group of spectators and began to examine this masterpiece. A very puzzled newspaperman joined them, bending and whispering to Helen Cumberly:

“Are you going to notice the thing seriously? Personally, I am writing it up as a practical joke! We are giving him half a column—Lord knows what for!—but I can’t see how to handle it except as funny stuff.”

“But, for heaven’s sake…what does he…call it?” muttered Denise Ryland, holding a pair of gold rimmed pince-nez before her eyes, and shifting them to and fro in an endeavor to focus the canvas.

“‘Our Lady of the Poppies,’” replied the journalist. “Do you think it’s intended to mean anything in particular?”

The question was no light one; it embodied a problem not readily solved. The scene depicted, and depicted with a skill, with a technical mastery of the bizarre that had in it something horrible—was a long narrow room—or, properly, cavern. The walls apparently were hewn from black rock, and at regular intervals, placed some three feet from these gleaming walls, uprose slender golden pillars

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 a kind of fretwork arch which entirely masked the ceiling. The point of sight adopted by the painter was peculiar. One apparently looked down into this apartment from some spot elevated fourteen feet or more above the floor level. The floor, which was black and polished, was strewn with tiger skins; and little, inlaid tables and garishly colored cushions were spread about in confusion, whilst cushioned divans occupied the visible corners of the place. The lighting was very “advanced”: a lamp, having a kaleidoscopic shade, swung from the center of the roof low into the room and furnished all the illumination.

Three doors were visible; one, directly in line at the further end of the place, apparently of carved ebony inlaid with ivory; another, on the right, of lemon wood or something allied to it, and inlaid with a design in some emerald hued material; with a third, corresponding door, on the left, just barely visible to the spectator.

Two figures appeared. One was that of a Chinaman in a green robe scarcely distinguishable from the cushions surrounding him, who crouched upon the divan to the left of the central door, smoking a long bamboo pipe. His face was the leering face of a yellow satyr. But, dominating the composition, and so conceived in form, in color, and in lighting, as to claim the attention centrally, so that the other extravagant details became but a setting for it, was another figure.

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 Upon a slender ivory pedestal crouched a golden dragon, and before the pedestal was placed a huge Chinese vase of the indeterminate pink seen in the heart of a rose, and so skilfully colored as to suggest an internal luminousness. The vase was loaded with a mass of exotic poppies, a riotous splash of color; whilst beside this vase, and slightly in front of the pedestal, stood the figure presumably intended to represent the Lady of the Poppies who gave title to the picture.

The figure was that of an Eastern girl, slight and supple, and possessing a devilish and forbidding grace. Her short hair formed a black smudge upon the canvas, and cast a dense shadow upon her face. The composition was infinitely daring; for out of this shadow shone the great black eyes, their most cunningly insinuated; whilst with a brilliant exclusion of detail—by means of two strokes of the brush steeped in brightest vermilion, and one seemingly haphazard splash of dead white—an evil and abandoned smile was made to greet the spectator.

To the waist, the figure was a study in satin nudity, whence, from a jeweled girdle, light draperies swept downward, covering the feet and swinging, a shimmering curve out into the foreground of the canvas, the curve being cut off in its apogee by the gold frame.

Above her head, this girl of demoniacal beauty held a bunch of poppies seemingly torn from the

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text:
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 vase: this, with her left hand; with her right she pointed, tauntingly, at her beholder.

In comparison with the effected futurism of the other pictures in the studio, “Our Lady of the Poppies,” beyond question was a great painting. From a point where the entire composition might be taken in by the eye, the uncanny scene glowed with highly colored detail; but, exclude the scheme of the composition, and focus the eye upon any one item—the golden dragon—the seated Chinaman—the ebony door—the silk-shaded lamp; it had no detail whatever: one beheld a meaningless mass of colors. Individually, no one section of the canvas had life, had meaning; but, as a whole, it glowed, it lived—it was genius. Above all, it was uncanny.

This, Denise Ryland fully realized, but critics had grown so used to treating the work of Olaf van Noord as a joke, that “Our Lady of the Poppies” in all probability would never be judged seriously.

“What does it mean, Mr. van Noord?” asked Helen Cumberly, leaving the group of worshipers standing hushed in rapture before the canvas and approaching the painter. “Is there some occult significance in the title?”

“It is a priestess,” replied the artist, in his dreamy fashion.…

“A priestess?”

“A priestess of the temple.”…

Helen Cumberly glanced again at the astonishing picture.

title: Page:Yellow Claw 1920.djvu/264


text:
Author:Kirsopp Lake

Articles

 * with C. H. Turner:
 * with F. E. Brightman:
 * Repr. Edinburgh: Otto Schulze & Co., 1908.
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Blake and Silva New:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * Repr. Edinburgh: Otto Schulze & Co., 1908.
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Blake and Silva New:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * Repr. Edinburgh: Otto Schulze & Co., 1908.
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Blake and Silva New:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Blake and Silva New:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Blake and Silva New:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Blake and Silva New:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Robert P. Casey:
 * with Robert P. Blake:
 * with Robert P. Blake and Silva New:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:

Book chapters
This section includes entries in encyclopedic works.
 * "Didache." In
 * "Baptism (Early Christian)." In
 * "Christmas." In
 * "Epiphany." In
 * "Acts of the Apostles." In
 * "Acts (Apocryphal)." In
 * "Luke." In
 * "Theophilus." In
 * "The Text of the Gospels." In
 * with Silva Lake: "The Text of Mark in Some Dated Lectionaries." In
 * with Silva Lake: "The Byzantine Text of the Gospels." In
 * "Albert Schweitzer's influence in Holland and England." In

Critical editions

 * with Frederick J. Foakes Jackson: Five volumes:
 * Kirsopp Lake, Frederick J. Foakes Jackson:
 * Kirsopp Lake, Frederick J. Foakes Jackson:
 * J. H. Ropes:
 * Kirsopp Lake, H. J. Cadbury:
 * Kirsopp Lake, H. J. Cadbury:
 * Kirsopp Lake, H. J. Cadbury:
 * Kirsopp Lake, H. J. Cadbury:

Facsimiles

 * with Helen Lake:
 * with Helen Lake:
 * with Silva Lake: 10 volumes + 1 volume of indexes:
 * with Helen Lake:
 * with Silva Lake: 10 volumes + 1 volume of indexes:

Monographs

 * 2nd ed. (1902) ; 4th ed. (1908); 6th ed. (1928), rev. Silva New.
 * American ed. 1922, different pagination
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * American ed. 1922, different pagination
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * American ed. 1922, different pagination
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:

Reviews

 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:
 * with Silva Lake:

Contributions to Encyclopædia Britannica

 * (New Testament, Texts and Versions and Textual Criticism)

title: Author:Kirsopp Lake


text:
Page:Yellow Claw 1920.djvu/265

 “Do you mean,” she began, “that there is a living original?”

Olaf van Noord bowed absently, and left her side to greet one who at that moment entered the studio. Something magnetic in the personality of the newcomer drew all eyes from the canvas to the figure on the threshold. The artist was removing garish tiger skin furs from the shoulders of the girl—for the new arrival was a girl, a Eurasian girl.

She wore a tiger skin motor-coat, and a little, close-fitting, turban-like cap of the same. The coat removed, she stood revealed in a clinging gown of silk; and her feet were shod in little amber colored slippers with green buckles. The bodice of her dress opened in a surprising V, displaying the satin texture of her neck and shoulders, and enhancing the barbaric character of her appearance. Her jet black hair was confined by no band or comb, but protruded Bishareen-like around the shapely head. Without doubt, this was the Lady of the Poppies—the original of the picture.

“Dear friends,” said Olaf van Noord, taking the girl’s hand, and walking into the studio, “permit me to present my model!”

Following, came a slightly built man who carried himself with a stoop; an olive faced man, who squinted frightfully, and who dressed immaculately.

“What a most…extraordinary-looking creature!” whispered Denise Ryland to Helen.

title: Page:Yellow Claw 1920.djvu/265


text:
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 “She has undoubted attractions of…a hellish sort…if I may use…the term.”

“She is the strangest looking girl I have ever seen in my life,” replied Helen, who found herself unable to turn her eyes away from Olaf van Noord’s model. “Surely she is not a professional model!”

The chatty reporter (his name was Crockett) confided to Helen Cumberly:

“She is not exactly a professional model, I think, Miss Cumberly, but she is one of the van Noord set, and is often to be seen in the more exclusive restaurants, and sometimes in the Café Royal.”

“She is possibly a member of the theatrical profession?”

“I think not. She is the only really strange figure (if we exclude Olaf) in this group of poseurs. She is half Burmese, I believe, and a native of Moulmein.”

“Most extraordinary creature!” muttered Denise Ryland, focussing upon the Eurasian her gold rimmed glasses—“most extraordinary.” She glanced around at the company in general. “I really begin to feel…more and more as though I were…in a private lunatic…asylum. That picture…beyond doubt is the work…of a madman…a perfect…madman!”

“I, also, begin to be conscious of an uncomfortable sensation,” said Helen, glancing about her almost apprehensively. “Am I dreaming, or did some one else enter the studio, immediately behind that girl?”

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text:
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 “A squinting man…yes!”

“But a third person?”

“No, my dear…look for yourself. As you say…you are…dreaming. It’s not to be wondered…at!”

Helen laughed, but very uneasily. Evidently it had been an illusion, but an unpleasant illusion; for she should have been prepared to swear that not two, but three people had entered! Moreover, although she was unable to detect the presence of any third stranger in the studio, the persuasion that this third person actually was present remained with her, unaccountably, and uncannily.

The lady of the tiger skins was surrounded by an admiring group of unusuals, and Helen, who had turned again to the big canvas, suddenly became aware that the little cross-eyed man was bowing and beaming radiantly before her.

“May I be allowed,” said Olaf van Noord who stood beside him, “to present my friend Mr. Gianapolis, my dear Miss Cumberly?”…

Helen Cumberly found herself compelled to acknowledge the introduction, although she formed an immediate, instinctive distaste for Mr. Gianapolis. But he made such obvious attempts to please, and was so really entertaining a talker, that she unbent towards him a little. His admiration, too, was unconcealed; and no pretty woman, however great her common sense, is entirely admiration-proof.

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 “Do you not think ‘Our Lady of the Poppies’ remarkable?” said Gianapolis, pleasantly.

“I think,” replied Denise Ryland,—to whom, also, the Greek had been presented by Olaf van Noord, “that it indicates…a disordered…imagination on the part of…its creator.”

“It is a technical masterpiece,” replied the Greek, smiling, “but hardly a work of imagination; for you have seen the original—of the principal figure, and”—he turned to Helen Cumberly—“one need not go very far East for such an interior as that depicted.”

“What!” Helen knitted her brows, prettily—“you do not suggest that such an apartment actually exists either East or West?”

Gianapolis beamed radiantly.

“You would, perhaps, like to see such an apartment?” he suggested.

“I should, certainly,” replied Helen Cumberly. “Not even in a stage setting have I seen anything like it.”

“You have never been to the East?”

“Never, unfortunately. I have desired to go for years, and hope to go some day.”

“In Smyrna you may see such rooms; possibly in Port Said—certainly in Cairo. In Constantinople—yes! But perhaps in Paris; and—who knows?—Sir Richard Burton explored Mecca, but who has explored London?”

Helen Cumberly watched him curiously.

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 “You excite my curiosity,” she said. “Don’t you think”—turning to Denise Ryland—“he is most tantalizing?”

Denise Ryland distended her nostrils scornfully.

“He is telling…fairy tales,” she declared. “He thinks…we are…silly!”

“On the contrary,” declared Gianapolis; “I flatter myself that I am too good a judge of character to make that mistake.”

Helen Cumberly absorbed his entire attention; in everything he sought to claim her interest; and when, ere taking their departure, the girl and her friend walked around the studio to view the other pictures, Gianapolis was the attendant cavalier, and so well as one might judge, in his case, his glance rarely strayed from the piquant beauty of Helen.

When they departed, it was Gianapolis, and not Olaf van Noord, who escorted them to the door and downstairs to the street. The red lips of the Eurasian smiled upon her circle of adulators, but her eyes—her unfathomable eyes—followed every movement of the Greek.

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OUR men sauntered up the grand staircase and entered the huge smoking-room of the Radical Club as Big Ben was chiming the hour of eleven o’clock. Any curious observer who had cared to consult the visitor’s book in the hall, wherein the two lines last written were not yet dry, would have found the following entries:

The smoking-room was fairly full, but a corner near the big open grate had just been vacated, and here, about a round table, the four disposed themselves. Our French acquaintance being in evening dress had perforce confined himself in his sartorial eccentricities to a flowing silk knot in place of the more conventional, neat bow. He was already upon delightfully friendly terms with the frigid Exel and the aristocratic Sir Brian Malpas. Few natures were proof against the geniality of the brilliant Frenchman.

Conversation drifted, derelict, from one topic to 262

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 another, now seized by this current of thought, now by that; and M. Gaston Max made no perceptible attempt to steer it in any given direction. But presently:

“I was reading a very entertaining article,” said Exel, turning his monocle upon the physician, “in the Planet to-day, from the pen of Miss Cumberly; Ah! dealing with Olaf van Noord.”

Sir Brian Malpas suddenly became keenly interested.

“You mean in reference to his new picture, ‘Our Lady of the Poppies’?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Exel, “but I was unaware that you knew van Noord?”

“I do not know him,” said Sir Brian, “I should very much like to meet him. But directly the picture is on view to the public I shall certainly subscribe my half-crown.”

“My own idea,” drawled Exel, “was that Miss Cumberly’s article probably was more interesting than the picture or the painter. Her description of the canvas was certainly most vivid; and I, myself, for a moment, experienced an inclination to see the thing. I feel sure, however, that I should be disappointed.”

“I think you are wrong,” interposed Cumberly. “Helen is enthusiastic about the picture, and even Miss Ryland, whom you have met and who is a somewhat severe critic, admits that it is out of the ordinary.”

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text:
Page:The thirty-six dramatic situations (1921).djvu/56

 MADNESS

(Elements: Madman and Victim)

The origin of certain human actions lies hidden in fearful mystery; a mystery wherein the ancients believed they discerned the cruel smile of a god, and wherein our scientists, like the Chinese philosophers believe, they recognize the desires, prolonged and hereditary, of an ancestor. A startling awakening it is for Reason, when she finds on all sides her destiny strewn with corpses or with dishonors, which the Other, the unknown, has scattered at his pleasure. At this calamity, greater than death, how our kindred must weep and tremble; what terror and suspense must arise in their minds! And the victims, whose cries are lost in the mute heavens; the beloved ones pursued in unreasoning rage which they cannot comprehend! What variations of the inconscient are here: folly, possession, divine blindness, hypnosis, intoxication, forgetfulness !

A (1) — Kinsmen Slain in Madness: — "Athamas" and the "Weavers of Nets" by Aeschylus; "Hercules Furens" by Euripides and by Seneca; "Ion" by Euripides.

(2) — A Lover Slain in Madness: — "La Fille Eliza," by Edmond de Goncourt; "La Tentation de Vivre" (Louis Ernault). A lover on the point of slaying his mistress in madness: Example from fiction: "La Bete Humaine." Familiar instances: Jack the Ripper; the Spaniard of Montmartre, etc.

(3) — Slaying or Injuring of a Person not Hated: — "Monsieur Bute" (Biollay, 1890). Destruction of a work: "Hedda Gabler."


text:
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 Max, who covertly had been watching the face of Sir Brian Malpas, said at this point:

“I would not miss it for anything, after reading Miss Cumberly’s account of it. When are you thinking of going to see it, Sir Brian? I might arrange to join you.”

“Directly the exhibition is opened,” replied the baronet, lapsing again into his dreamy manner. “Ring me up when you are going, and I will join you.”

“But you might be otherwise engaged?”

“I never permit business,” said Sir Brian, “to interfere with pleasure.”

The words sounded absurd, but, singularly, the statement was true. Sir Brian had won his political position by sheer brilliancy. He was utterly unreliable and totally indifferent to that code of social obligations which ordinarily binds his class. He held his place by force of intellect, and it was said of him that had he possessed the faintest conception of his duties toward his fellow men, nothing could have prevented him from becoming Prime Minister. He was a puzzle to all who knew him. Following a most brilliant speech in the House, which would win admiration and applause from end to end of the Empire, he would, perhaps on the following day, exhibit something very like stupidity in debate. He would rise to address the House and take his seat again without having uttered a word. He was eccentric, said his admirers, but there were

title: Page:Yellow Claw 1920.djvu/272


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 others who looked deeper for an explanation, yet failed to find one, and were thrown back upon theories.

M. Max, by strategy, masterful because it was simple, so arranged matters that at about twelve o’clock he found himself strolling with Sir Brian Malpas toward the latter’s chambers in Piccadilly.

A man who wore a raincoat with the collar turned up and buttoned tightly about his throat, and whose peculiar bowler hat seemed to be so tightly pressed upon his head that it might have been glued there, detached himself from the shadows of the neighboring cabrank as M. Gaston Max and Sir Brian Malpas quitted the Club, and followed them at a discreet distance.

It was a clear, fine night, and both gentlemen formed conspicuous figures, Sir Brian because of his unusual height and upright military bearing, and the Frenchman by reason of his picturesque cloak and hat. Up Northumberland Avenue, across Trafalgar Square and so on up to Piccadilly Circus went the two, deep in conversation; with the tireless man in the raincoat always dogging their footsteps. So the procession proceeded on, along Piccadilly. Then Sir Brian and M. Max turned into the door of a block of chambers, and a constable, who chanced to be passing at the moment, touched his helmet to the baronet.

As the two were entering the lift, the follower came up level with the doorway and abreast of the

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 constable; the top portion of a very red face showed between the collar of the raincoat and the brim of the hat, together with a pair of inquiring blue eyes.

“Reeves!” said the follower, addressing the constable.

The latter turned and stared for a moment at the speaker; then saluted hurriedly.

“Don’t do that!” snapped the proprietor of the bowler; “you should know better! Who was that gentleman?”

“Sir Brian Malpas, sir.”

“Sir Brian Malpas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the other?”

“I don’t know, sir. I have never seen him before.”

“H’m!” grunted Detective-Sergeant Sowerby, walking across the road toward the Park with his hands thrust deep in his pockets; “I have! What the deuce is Max up to? I wonder if Dunbar knows about this move?”

He propped himself up against the railings, scarcely knowing what he expected to gain by remaining there, but finding the place as well suited to reflection as any other. He shared with Dunbar a dread that the famous Frenchman would bring the case to a successful conclusion unaided by Scotland Yard, thus casting professional discredit upon Dunbar and himself.

His presence at that spot was largely due to

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. He had chanced to be passing the Club when Sir Brian and M. Max had come out, and, fearful that the presence of the tall stranger portended some new move on the Frenchman’s part, Sowerby had followed, hoping to glean something by persistency when clues were unobtainable by other means. He had had no time to make inquiries of the porter of the Club respecting the identity of M. Max’s companion, and thus, as has appeared, he did not obtain the desired information until his arrival in Piccadilly.

Turning over these matters in his mind, Sowerby stood watching the block of buildings across the road. He saw a light spring into being in a room overlooking Piccadilly, a room boasting a handsome balcony. This took place some two minutes after the departure of the lift bearing Sir Brian and his guest upward; so that Sowerby permitted himself to conclude that the room with the balcony belonged to Sir Brian Malpas.

He watched the lighted window aimlessly and speculated upon the nature of the conversation then taking place up there above him. Had he possessed the attributes of a sparrow, he thought, he might have flown up to that balcony and have “got level” with this infernally clever Frenchman who was almost certainly going to pull off the case under the very nose of Scotland Yard.

In short, his reflections were becoming somewhat bitter; and persuaded that he had nothing to gain

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 by remaining there any longer he was about to walk off, when his really remarkable persistency received a trivial reward.

One of the windows communicating with the balcony was suddenly thrown open, so that Sowerby had a distant view of the corner of a picture, of the extreme top of a book-case, and of a patch of white ceiling in the room above; furthermore he had a clear sight of the man who had opened the window, and who now turned and reentered the room. The man was Sir Brian Malpas.

Heedless of the roaring traffic stream, upon the brink of which he stood, heedless of all who passed him by, Sowerby gazed aloft, seeking to project himself, as it were, into that lighted room. Not being an accomplished clairvoyant, he remained in all his component parts upon the pavement of Piccadilly; but ours is the privilege to succeed where Sowerby failed, and the comedy being enacted in the room above should prove well deserving of study.

To the tactful diplomacy of M. Gaston Max, the task of securing from Sir Brian an invitation to step up into his chambers in order to smoke a final cigar was no heavy one. He seated himself in a deep armchair, at the baronet’s invitation, and accepted a very fine cigar, contentedly, sniffing at the old cognac with the appreciation of a connoisseur, ere holding it under the syphon.

He glanced around the room, noting the character of the ornaments, and looked up at the big

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 which was near to him; these rapid inquiries dictated the following remark: “You have lived in China, Sir Brian?”

Sir Brian surveyed him with mild surprise.

“Yes,” he replied; “I was for some time at the Embassy in Pekin.”

His guest nodded, blowing a ring of smoke from his lips and tracing its hazy outline with the lighted end of his cigar.

“I, too, have been in China,” he said slowly.

“What, really! I had no idea.”

“Yes—I have been in China…I”…

M. Gaston grew suddenly deathly pale and his fingers began to twitch alarmingly. He stared before him with wide-opened eyes and began to cough and to choke as if suffocating—dying.

Sir Brian Malpas leapt to his feet with an exclamation of concern. His visitor weakly waved him away, gasping: “It is nothing…it will…pass off. Oh! mon dieu!”…

Sir Brian ran and opened one of the windows to admit more air to the apartment. He turned and looked back anxiously at the man in the armchair. M. Gaston, twitching in a pitiful manner and still frightfully pale, was clutching the chair-arms and glaring straight in front of him. Sir Brian started slightly and advanced again to his visitor’s side.

The burning cigar lay upon the carpet beside the chair, and Sir Brian took it up and tossed it into the grate. As he did so he looked searchingly into

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 the eyes of M. Gaston. The pupils were extraordinary dilated.…

“Do you feel better?” asked Sir Brian.

“Much better,” muttered M. Gaston, his face twitching nervously—“much better.”

“Are you subject to these attacks?”

“Since—I was in China—yes, unfortunately.”

Sir Brian tugged at his fair mustache and seemed about to speak, then turned aside, and, walking to the table, poured out a peg of brandy and offered it to his guest.

“Thanks,” said M. Gaston; “many thanks indeed, but already I recover. There is only one thing that would hasten my recovery, and that, I fear, is not available.”

“What is that?”

He looked again at M. Gaston’s eyes with their very dilated pupils.

“Opium!” whispered M. Gaston.

“What! you…you”…

“I acquired the custom in China,” replied the Frenchman, his voice gradually growing stronger; “and for many years, now, I have regarded opium as essential to my well-being. Unfortunately business has detained me in London, and I have been forced to fast for an unusually long time. My outraged constitution is protesting—that is all.”

He shrugged his shoulders and glanced up at his host with an odd smile.

“You have my sympathy,” said Sir Brian.…

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 “In Paris,” continued the visitor, “I am a member of a select and cozy little club; near the Boulevard Beaumarchais.…”

“I have heard of it,” interjected Malpas—“on the Rue St. Claude?”

“That indeed is its situation,” replied the other with surprise. “You know someone who is a member?”

Sir Brian Malpas hesitated for ten seconds or more; then, crossing the room and reclosing the window, he turned, facing his visitor across the large room.

“I was a member, myself, during the time that I lived in Paris,” he said, in a hurried manner which did not entirely serve to cover his confusion.

“My dear Sir Brian! We have at least one taste in common!”

Sir Brian Malpas passed his hand across his brow with a weary gesture well-known to fellow Members of Parliament, for it often presaged the abrupt termination of a promising speech.

“I curse the day that I was appointed to Pekin,” he said; “for it was in Pekin that I acquired the opium habit. I thought to make it my servant; it has made me”…

“What! you would give it up?”

Sir Brian surveyed the speaker with surprise again.

“Do you doubt it?”

“My dear Sir Brian!” cried the Frenchman, now

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 completely restored, “my real life is lived in the land of the poppies; my other life is but a shadow! Morbleu! to be an outcast from that garden of bliss is to me torture excruciating. For the past three months I have regularly met in my trances.”…

Sir Brian shuddered coldly.

“In my explorations of that wonderland,” continued the Frenchman, “a most fascinating Eastern girl. Ah! I cannot describe her; for when, at a time like this, I seek to conjure up her image,—nom d’um nom! do you know, I can think of nothing but a serpent!”

“A serpent!”

“A serpent, exactly. Yet, when I actually meet her in the land of the poppies, she is a dusky Cleopatra in whose arms I forget the world—even the world of the poppy. We float down the stream together, always in an Indian bark canoe, and this stream runs through orange groves. Numberless apes—millions of apes, inhabit these groves, and as we two float along, they hurl orange blossoms—orange blossoms, you understand—until the canoe is filled with them. I assure you, monsieur, that I perform these delightful journeys regularly, and to be deprived of the key which opens the gate of this wonderland, is to me like being exiled from a loved one. Pardieu! that grove of the apes! Morbleu! my witch of the dusky eyes! Yet, as I have told you, owing to some trick of my brain, whilst I can experience an intense longing for that companion of

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 my dreams, my waking attempts to visualize her provide nothing but the image”…

“Of a serpent,” concluded Sir Brian, smiling pathetically. “You are indeed an enthusiast, M. Gaston, and to me a new type. I had supposed that every slave of the drug cursed his servitude and loathed and despised himself.”…

“Ah, monsieur! to me those words sound almost like a sacrilege!”

“But,” continued Sir Brian, “your remarks interest me strangely; for two reasons. First, they confirm your assertion that you are, or were, an habitué of the Rue St. Claude, and secondly, they revive in my mind an old fancy—a superstition.”

“What is that, Sir Brian?” inquired M. Max, whose opium vision was a faithful imitation of one related to him by an actual frequenter of the establishment near the Boulevard Beaumarchais.

“Only once before, M. Gaston, have I compared notes with a fellow opium-smoker, and he, also, was a patron of Madame Jean; he, also, met in his dreams that Eastern Circe, in the grove of apes, just as I”…

“Morbleu! Yes?”

“As I meet her!”

“But this is astounding!” cried Max, who actually thought it so. “Your fancy—your superstition—was this: that only habitués of Rue St. Claude met, in poppyland, this vision? And in your fancy you are now confirmed?”

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 “It is singular, at least.”

“It is more than that, Sir Brian! Can it be that some intelligence presides over that establishment and exercises—shall I call it a hypnotic influence upon the inmates?”

M. Max put the question with sincere interest.

“One does not always meet her,” murmured Sir Brian. “But—yes, it is possible. For I have since renewed those experiences in London.”

“What! in London?”

“Are you remaining for some time longer in London?”

“Alas! for several weeks yet.”

“Then I will introduce you to a gentleman who can secure you admission to an establishment in London—where you may even hope sometimes to find the orange grove—to meet your dream-bride!”

“What!” cried M. Gaston, rising to his feet, his eyes bright with gratitude, “you will do that?”

“With pleasure,” said Sir Brian Malpas, wearily; “nor am I jealous! But—no! do not thank me, for I do not share your views upon the subject, monsieur. You are a devout worshiper; I, an unhappy slave!”

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NTO the Palm Court of the Hotel Astoria, Mr. Gianapolis came, radiant and bowing. M. Gaston rose to greet his visitor. M. Gaston was arrayed in a light gray suit and wore a violet tie of very chaste design; his complexion had assumed a quality of sallowness, and the pupils of his eyes had acquired (as on the occasion of his visit to the chambers of Sir Brian Malpas) a  quality; they alternately dilated and contracted in a most remarkable manner—in a manner which attracted the immediate attention of Mr. Gianapolis.

“My dear sir,” he said, speaking in French, “you suffer. I perceive how grievously you suffer; and you have been denied that panacea which beneficent nature designed for the service of mankind. A certain gentleman known to both of us (we brethren of the poppy are all nameless) has advised me of your requirements—and here I am.”

“You are welcome,” declared M. Gaston.

He rose and grasped eagerly the hand of the Greek, at the same time looking about the Palm Court suspiciously. “You can relieve my sufferings?”

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 Mr. Gianapolis seated himself beside the Frenchman.

“I perceive,” he said, “that you are of those who abjure the heresies of De Quincey. How little he knew, that De Quincey, of the true ritual of the poppy! He regarded it as the German regards his lager, whereas we know—you and I—that it is an Eleusinian mystery; that true communicants must retreat to the temple of the goddess if they would partake of Paradise with her.”

“It is perhaps a question of temperament,” said M. Gaston, speaking in a singularly tremulous voice. “De Quincey apparently possessed the type of constitution which is cerebrally stimulated by opium. To such a being the golden gates are closed; and the Easterners, whom he despised for what he termed their beastly lethargies, have taught me the real secret of the poppy. I do not employ opium as an aid to my social activities; I regard it as nepenthe from them and as a key to a brighter realm. It has been my custom, M. Gianapolis, for many years, periodically to visit that fairyland. In Paris I regularly arranged my affairs in such a manner that I found myself occasionally at liberty to spend two or three days, as the case might be, in the company of my bright friends who haunted the Boulevard Beaumarchais.”

“Ah! Our acquaintance has mentioned something of this to me, Monsieur. You knew Madame Jean?”

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 “The dear Madame Jean! Name of a name! She was the of my Paris Temple”…

“And Sen?”

“Our excellent Sen! Splendid man! It was from the hands of the worthy Sen, the incomparable Sen, that I received the key to the gate! Ah! how I have suffered since the accursed business has exiled me from the”…

“I feel for you,” declared Gianapolis, warmly; “I, too, have worshiped at the shrine; and although I cannot promise that the London establishment to which I shall introduce you is comparable with that over which Madame Jean formerly presided”. ..

“Formerly?” exclaimed M. Gaston, with lifted eyebrows. “You do not tell me”…

“My friend,” said Gianapolis, “in Europe we are less enlightened upon certain matters than in Smyrna, in Constantinople—in Cairo. The impertinent police have closed the establishment in the Rue St. Claude!”

“Ah!” exclaimed M. Gaston, striking his brow, “misery! I shall return to Paris, then, only to die?”

“I would suggest, monsieur,” said Gianapolis, tapping him confidentially upon the breast, “that you periodically visit London in future. The journey is a short one, and already, I am happy to say, the London establishment (conducted by Mr. Ho-Pin of Canton—a most accomplished gentleman, and a graduate of London)—enjoys the patronage

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 of several distinguished citizens of Paris, of Brussels, of Vienna, and elsewhere.”

“You offer me life!” declared M. Gaston, gratefully. “The commoner establishments, for the convenience of sailors and others of that class, at Dieppe, Calais,”—he shrugged his shoulders, comprehensively—“are impossible as resorts. In catering for the true devotees—for those who, unlike De Quincey, plunge and do not dabble—for those who seek to explore the ultimate regions of poppyland, for those who have learnt the mystery from the real masters in Asia and not in Europe—the enterprise conducted by Madame Jean supplied a want long and bitterly experienced. I rejoice to know that London has not been neglected.”. ..

“My dear friend!” cried Gianapolis enthusiastically, “no important city has been neglected! A high priest of the cult has arisen, and from a parent lodge in Pekin he has extended his offices to kindred lodges in most of the capitals of Europe and Asia; he has not neglected the Near East, and America owes him a national debt of gratitude.”

“Ah! the great man!” murmured M. Gaston, with closed eyes. “As an old habitué of the Rue St. Claude, I divine that you refer to Mr. King?”

“Beyond doubt,” whispered Gianapolis, imparting a quality of awe to his voice. “From you, my friend, I will have no secrets; but”—he glanced about him crookedly, and lowered his voice to an

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 impressive whisper—“the police, as you are aware”…

“Curse their interference!” said M. Gaston.

“Curse it indeed; but the police persist in believing, or in pretending to believe, that any establishment patronized by lovers of the magic resin must necessarily be a resort of criminals.”

“Pah!”

“Whilst this absurd state of affairs prevails, it is advisable, it is more than advisable, it is imperative, that all of us should be secret. The…raid—unpleasant word!—upon the establishment in Paris—was so unexpected that there was no time to advise patrons; but the admirable tact of the French authorities ensured the suppression of all names. Since—always as a protective measure—no business relationship exists between any two of Mr. King’s establishments (each one being entirely self-governed) some difficulty is being experienced, I believe, in obtaining the names of those who patronized Madame Jean. But I am doubly glad to have met you, M. Gaston, for not only can I put you in touch with the London establishment, but I can impress upon you the necessity of preserving absolute silence”…

M. Gaston extended his palms eloquently.

“To me,” he declared, “the name of Mr. King is a sacred symbol.”

“It is to all of us!” responded the Greek, devoutly.

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Rh "But," said the reverend superior, "who is to look after the house whilst we are away?" "Have no concern about that," said Collet. "I will keep guard." So all these green goslings trotted off on a visit of inspection, to decide which room was to be fitted up as a chapel, which was to be library, which were to be devoted to studies, and which to serve as dormitories. Meanwhile Collet had free range over the college. He broke open the treasury of the society and filled his pockets with the money found there. He visited the chapel, and carried off all the sacred vessels; he cleared out all the desks and lockers, and left behind, as the superior afterwards said, "nothing but my spectacles, to enable me another time to look sharper after rogues." Collet departed, with all his spoil, and took the road to Anjou; he next turned up at Bessac in a hotel, where, through vague hints thrown out, he allowed it to be supposed that he was the Emperor Napoleon, escaped from Ste. Helena, and in hiding—awaiting his opportunity to reascend the imperial throne. The loyal Bonapartists called on him and were graciously received, and they offered him money which he also graciously accepted and promised to repay with usury and with honours when he came to his own again. At last the mayor became alarmed, called on him, and respectfully intimated that he himself was in danger of being called to account for harbouring in the place the illustrious fugitive; that personally he was devoted to his imperial master, and that for this very reason he was solicitous for his welfare. He feared that the secret of his presence at Bessac was divulged, and it was quite possible that an

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 M. Gaston in turn became confidential, bending toward Gianapolis so that, as the shadow of the Greek fell upon his face, his pupils contracted catlike.

“How often have I prayed,” he whispered, “for a sight of that remarkable man!”

A look of horror, real or simulated, appeared upon the countenance of Gianapolis.

“To see—Mr. King!” he breathed. “My dear friend, I declare to you by all that I hold sacred that I—though one of the earliest patrons of the first establishment, that in Pekin—have never seen Mr. King!”

“He is so cautious and so clever as that?”

“Even as cautious and even as clever—yes! Though every branch of the enterprise in the world were destroyed, no man would ever see Mr. King; he would remain but a name!”

“You will arrange for me to visit the house of—Ho-Pin, did you say?—immediately?”

“To-day, if you wish,” said Gianapolis, brightly.

“My funds,” continued M. Gaston, shrugging his shoulders, “are not limitless at the moment; and until I receive a remittance from Paris”…

The brow of Mr. Gianapolis darkened slightly.

“Our clientele here,” he replied, “is a very wealthy one, and the fees are slightly higher than in Paris. An entrance fee of fifty guineas is charged, and an annual subscription of the same amount”…

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 “But,” exclaimed M. Gaston, “I shall not be in London for so long as a year! In a week or a fortnight from now, I shall be on my way to America!”

“You will receive an introduction to the New York representative, and your membership will be available for any of the United States establishments.”

“But I am going to South America.”

“At Buenos Aires is one of the largest branches.”

“But I am not going to Buenos Aires! I am going with a prospecting party to Yucatan.”

“You must be well aware, monsieur, that to go to Yucatan is to exile yourself from all that life holds for you.”

“I can take a supply”…

“You will die, monsieur! Already you suffer abominably”…

“I do not suffer because of any lack of the specific,” said M. Gaston wearily; “for if I were entirely unable to obtain possession of it, I should most certainly die. But I suffer because, living as I do at present in a public hotel, I am unable to embark upon a protracted voyage into those realms which hold so much for me”…

“I offer you the means”…

“But to charge me one hundred guineas, since I cannot possibly avail myself of the full privileges, is to rob me—is to trade upon my condition!” M. Gaston was feebly indignant.

“Let it be twenty-five guineas, monsieur,” said

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 the Greek, reflectively, “entitling you to two visits.”

“Good! good!” cried M. Gaston. “Shall I write you a check?”

“You mistake me,” said Gianapolis. “I am in no way connected with the management of the establishment. You will settle this business matter with Mr. Ho-Pin”…

“Yes, yes!”

“To whom I will introduce you this evening. Checks, as you must be aware, are unacceptable. I will meet you at Piccadilly Circus, outside the entrance to the London Pavilion, at nine o’clock this evening, and you will bring with you the twenty-five guineas in cash. You will arrange to absent yourself during the following day?”

“Of course, of course! At nine o’clock at Piccadilly Circus?”

“Exactly.”

M. Gaston, this business satisfactorily completed, made his way to his own room by a somewhat devious route, not wishing to encounter anyone of his numerous acquaintances whilst in an apparent state of ill-health so calculated to excite compassion. He avoided the lift and ascended the many stairs to his small apartment.

Here he rectified the sallowness of his complexion, which was due, not to outraged nature, but to the arts of make-up. His dilated pupils (a phenomenon traceable to drops of belladonna) he was

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 to suffer for the present; but since their condition tended temporarily to impair his sight, he determined to remain in his room until the time for the appointment with Gianapolis.

“So!” he muttered—“we have branches in Europe, Asia, Africa and America! Eh, bien! to find all those would occupy five hundred detectives for a whole year. I have a better plan: crush the spider and the winds of heaven will disperse his web!”

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E seated himself in a cane armchair and, whilst the facts were fresh in his memory, made elaborate notes upon the recent conversation with the Greek. He had achieved almost more than he could have hoped for; but, knowing something of the elaborate organization of the opium group, he recognized that he owed some part of his information to the sense of security which this admirably conducted machine inspired in its mechanics. The introduction from Sir Brian Malpas had worked wonders, without doubt; and his own intimate knowledge of the establishment adjoining the Boulevard Beaumarchais, far from arousing the suspicions of Gianapolis, had evidently strengthened the latter’s conviction that he had to deal with a confirmed opium slave.

The French detective congratulated himself upon the completeness of his Paris operation. It was evident that the French police had succeeded in suppressing all communication between the detained members of the Rue St. Claude den and the head office—which he shrewdly suspected to be situated in London. So confident were the group in the

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 properties of each of their branches that the raid of any one establishment meant for them nothing more than a temporary financial loss. Failing the clue supplied by the draft on Paris, the case, so far as he was concerned, indeed, must have terminated with the raiding of the opium house. He reflected that he owed that precious discovery primarily to the promptness with which he had conducted the raid—to the finding of the letter (the one incriminating letter) from Mr. King.

Evidently the group remained in ignorance of the fact that the little arrangement at the Crédit Lyonnais had been discovered. He surveyed—and his eyes twinkled humorously—a small photograph which was contained in his writing-case.

It represented a very typical Parisian gentleman, with a carefully trimmed square beard and well brushed mustache, wearing pince-nez and a white silk knot at his neck. The photograph was cut from a French magazine, and beneath it appeared the legend:

There was marked genius in the conspicuous dressing of M. Gaston Max, who, as M. Gaston, was now patronizing the Hotel Astoria. For whilst there was nothing furtive, nothing secret, about this gentleman, the closest scrutiny (and because he invited it, he was never subjected to it) must have

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 failed to detect any resemblance between M. Gaston of the Hotel Astoria and M. Gaston Max of the Service de Sûrète.

And which was the original M. Gaston Max? Was the M. Max of the magazine photograph a disguised M. Max? or was that the veritable M. Max, and was the patron of the Astoria a disguised M. Max? It is quite possible that M. Gaston Max, himself, could not have answered that question, so true an artist was he; and it is quite certain that had the occasion arisen he would have refused to do so.

He partook of a light dinner in his own room, and having changed into evening dress, went out to meet Mr. Gianapolis. The latter was on the spot punctually at nine o’clock, and taking the Frenchman familiarly by the arm, he hailed a taxi-cab, giving the man the directions, “To Victoria-Suburban.” Then, turning to his companion, he whispered: “Evening dress? And you must return in daylight.”

M. Max felt himself to be flushing like a girl. It was an error of artistry that he had committed; a heinous crime! “So silly of me!” he muttered.

“No matter,” replied the Greek, genially.

The cab started. M. Max, though silently reproaching himself, made mental notes of the destination. He had not renewed his sallow complexion, for reasons of his own, and his dilated pupils were beginning to contract again, facts which were not very evident, however, in the poor light. He was

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 very twitchy, nevertheless, and the face of the man beside him was that of a sympathetic vulture, if such a creature can be imagined. He inquired casually if the new patron had brought his money with him, but for the most part his conversation turned upon China, with which country he seemed to be well acquainted. Arrived at Victoria, Mr. Gianapolis discharged the cab, and again taking the Frenchman by the arm, walked with him some twenty paces away from the station. A car suddenly pulled up almost beside them.

Ere M. Max had time to note those details in which he was most interested, Gianapolis had opened the door of the limousine, and the Frenchman found himself within, beside Gianapolis, and behind drawn blinds, speeding he knew not in what direction!

“I suppose I should apologize, my dear M. Gaston,” said the Greek; and, although unable to see him, for there was little light in the car, M. Max seemed to feel him smiling—“but this little device has proved so useful hitherto. In the event of any of those troubles—wretched police interferences—arising, and of officious people obtaining possession of a patron’s name, he is spared the necessity of perjuring himself in any way”…

“Perhaps I do not entirely understand you, monsieur?” said M. Max.

“It is so simple. The police are determined to raid one of our establishments: they adopt the course

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 of tracking an habitué. This is not impossible. They question him; they ask, ‘Do you know a Mr. King?’ He replies that he knows no such person, has never seen, has never spoken with him! I assure you that official inquiries have gone thus far already, in New York, for example; but to what end? They say, ‘Where is the establishment of a Mr. King to which you have gone on such and such an occasion?’ He replies with perfect truth, ‘I do not know.’ Believe me this little device is quite in your own interest, M. Gaston.”

“But when again I feel myself compelled to resort to the solace of the pipe, how then?”

“So simple! You will step to the telephone and ask for this number: East 18642. You will then ask for Mr. King, and an appointment will be made; I will meet you as I met you this evening—and all will be well.”

M. Max began to perceive that he had to deal with a scheme even more elaborate than hitherto he had conjectured. These were very clever poplepeople [sic], and through the whole complicated network, as through the petal of a poppy one may trace the veins, he traced the guiding will—the power of a tortuous Eastern mind. The system was truly Chinese in its elaborate, uncanny mystifications.

In some covered place that was very dark, the car stopped, and Gianapolis, leaping out with agility, assisted M. Max to descend.

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 This was a covered courtyard, only lighted by the head-lamps of the limousine.

“Take my hand,” directed the Greek.

M. Max complied, and was conducted through a low doorway and on to descending steps.

Dimly, he heard the gear of the car reversed, and knew that the limousine was backing out from the courtyard. The door behind him was closed, and he heard no more. A dim light shone out below.

He descended, walking more confidently now that the way was visible. A moment later he stood upon the threshold of an apartment which calls for no further description at this place; he stood in the doorway of the incredible, unforgettable cave of the golden dragon; he looked into the beetle eyes of Ho-Pin!

Ho-Pin bowed before him, smiling his mirthless smile. In his left hand he held an amber cigarette tube in which a cigarette smoldered gently, sending up a gray pencil of smoke into the breathless, perfumed air.

“Mr. Ho-Pin,” said Gianapolis, indicating the Chinaman, “who will attend to your requirements. This is our new friend from Paris, introduced by Sir B. M, M. Gaston.”

“You are vewry welcome,” said the Chinaman in his monotonous, metallic voice. “I understand that a fee of twenty-five guineas”—he bowed again, still smiling.

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 The visitor took out his pocket-book and laid five notes, one sovereign, and two half-crowns upon a little ebony table beside him. Ho-Pin bowed again and waved his hand toward the lemon-colored door on the left.

“Good night, M. Gaston!” said Gianapolis, in radiant benediction.

“Au revoir, monsieur!”

M. Max followed Ho-Pin to Block A and was conducted to a room at the extreme right of the matting-lined corridor. He glanced about it curiously.

“If you will pwrepare for your flight into the subliminal,” said Ho-Pin, bowing in the doorway, “I shall pwresently wreturn with your wings.”

In the cave of the golden dragon, Gianapolis sat smoking upon one of the divans. The silence of the place was extraordinary; unnatural, in the very heart of busy commercial London. Ho-Pin reappeared and standing in the open doorway of Block A sharply clapped his hands three times.

Said, the Egyptian, came out of the door at the further end of the place, bearing a brass tray upon which were a little brass lamp of Oriental manufacture wherein burned a blue spirituous flame, a Japanese, lacquered box not much larger than a snuff-box, and a long and most curiously carved pipe of wood inlaid with metal and having a metal bowl. Bearing this, he crossed the room, passed Ho-Pin, and entered the corridor beyond.

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224 attempt would be made to assassinate the fugitive. He accordingly strongly urged Collet to remove to a place where he was not in such danger. Collet accordingly departed; went to Rochebeaucourt, where he took up his lodging with the commissary of the police. In the meantime accurate descriptions of Collet had been sent throughout France to the police, and this commissary had received them. Yet never for a moment did it occur to him that the gentleman of aristocratic appearance and with a purse well lined, who paid so promptly and liberally for his pension, could be the man so much sought for. From Rochebeaucourt Collet went to Le Mans, where he figured as a well-to-do bourgeois, devoted to charitable actions; a man of irreproachable life. But there, finally, he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to twenty years' hard labour, and to be branded as a felon. In prison he remained for twenty years, and died on the eve of the day when his chains were to be struck off, in November, 1840. This extraordinary story does not so much prove how gullible men are, as how good and trustworthy most men are, so that when we do come across a rogue who takes advantage of us, it is like an earthquake that shakes us out of our moral equilibrium. Some very interesting excursions may be made from Nice to places accessible by electric tram or by train. Cagnes was a castle of the Grimaldi. The little town occupies a hog'sback, the summit of the hill is crowned by the chateau, and the one street leading to it runs up the spine of hill, with houses on each side clinging to the steep sides. The castle is not very picturesque, but

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 “You have, of course, put him in the observation room?” said Gianapolis.

Ho-Pin regarded the speaker unemotionally.

“Assuwredly,” he replied; “for since he visits us for the first time, Mr. King will wish to see him”…

A faint shadow momentarily crossed the swarthy face of the Greek at mention of that name—Mr. King. The servants of Mr. King, from the highest to the lowest, served him for gain…and from fear.

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TTER silence had claimed again the cave of the golden dragon. Gianapolis sat alone in the place, smoking a cigarette, and gazing crookedly at the image on the ivory pedestal. Then, glancing at his wrist-watch, he stood up, and, stepping to the entrance door, was about to open it…

“Ah, so! You go—already?”—

Gianapolis started back as though he had put his foot upon a viper, and turned.

The Eurasian, wearing her yellow, Chinese dress, and with a red poppy in her hair, stood watching him through half-shut eyes, slowly waving her little fan before her face. Gianapolis attempted the radiant smile, but its brilliancy was somewhat forced tonight.

“Yes, I must be off,” he said hurriedly; “I have to see someone—a future client, I think!”

“A future client—yes!”—the long black eyes were closed almost entirely now. “Who is it—this future client, that you have to see?”

“My dear Mahâra! How odd of you to ask that”…

“It is odd of me?—so!…It is odd of me

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 that I thinking to wonder why you alway running away from me now?”

“Run away from you! My dear little Mahâra!”—He approached the dusky beauty with a certain timidity as one might seek to caress a tiger-cat—“Surely you know”…

She struck down his hand with a sharp blow of her closed fan, darting at him a look from the brilliant eyes which was a living flame.

Resting one hand upon her hip, she stood with her right foot thrust forward from beneath the yellow robe and pivoting upon the heel of its little slipper. Her head tilted, she watched him through lowered lashes.

“It was not so with you in Moulmein,” she said, her silvery voice lowered caressingly. “Do you remember with me a night beside the Irawaddi?—where was that I wonder? Was it in Prome?—Perhaps, yes?…you threatened me to leap in, if…and I think to believe you!—I believing you!”

“Mahâra!” cried Gianapolis, and sought to seize her in his arms.

Again she struck down his hand with the little fan, watching him continuously and with no change of expression. But the smoldering fire in those eyes told of a greater flame which consumed her slender body and was potent enough to consume many a victim upon its altar. Gianapolis’ yellow skin assumed a faintly mottled appearance.

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