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 * 1) What is this?
 * 2) This is butter.
 * 3) Is there any fruit?
 * 4) There are two kinds.
 * 5) What kinds?
 * 6) There are plantains and pine-apples.
 * 7) Are there any other kinds?
 * 8) There are no other kinds.
 * 9) Bring me a light.
 * 10) Have any letters come?
 * 11) Where did this letter come from?
 * 12) This came from the Tek-kee hong.
 * 13) Is there any answer?
 * 14) There is no answer.
 * 15) Bring me a chair.
 * 16) Put it on the table.
 * 17) When did this come?
 * 18) When did you come?
 * 19) Bring me a pen and ink.
 * 20) There is a pencil up stairs.
 * 21) Is there anyone down stairs?
 * 22) This house has seven rooms.
 * 23) Has it a garden?
 * 24) It has a small one.
 * 25) Where is your master?
 * 26) He is out.
 * 27) When will he be back?
 * 28) He didn't say.
 * 29) Is your mistress at home?
 * 30) She went out with my master.
 * 31) When your master comes, tell him.
 * 32) I will come again to-morrow.


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 * 1) Nyah-teu hay mahk-ki?
 * 2) Nyah-teu hay nyeeoo-yeeoo.
 * 3) Yeeoo koh-tsz mow?
 * 4) Yeeoo leeong-yong.
 * 5) Leeong-pen-yong ki? or mahk-ki-yong ki?
 * 6) Yeeoo ngah-tseeow, yeeoo poh-loh.
 * 7) Hahn-yeeoo p'et-nyee-yong mow?
 * 8) Mow t'ea-nyee-yong loh.
 * 9) Tsah foh loy.
 * 10) Yeeoo sin loy mow?
 * 11) Nyah foong-sin nigh-t'ahng loy ki?
 * 12) Hay-ts'oy Tet-kee-hong loy ki.
 * 13) Yeeoo fooee-yim mow?
 * 14) Mow fooee-yim-loh.
 * 15) Teu chong-ye-loy peen-ngi.
 * 16) Fong-ts'i t'oy-shong.
 * 17) Nyah-teu key-she loy ki?
 * 18) Nyee key-she loy?
 * 19) Keeahm peet, met loy peen-ngi.
 * 20) Leu-shong yeeoo-chee-yen-peet.
 * 21) Leu-hah yeeoo-nyin mow?
 * 22) Nyah-kahn-wook yeeoo-ts'eet-chahk-fong.
 * 23) Yeeoo fah-yen mow?
 * 24) Yeeoo chahk say-ki.
 * 25) Nyah she-t'eu ts'oy nigh-t'ahng?
 * 26) Key ch'oot-hoy ki.
 * 27) Key key-she chon-loy?
 * 28) Mow-wah.
 * 29) Nyah-she-t'eu-p'oh ts'oy wook-k'ah m?
 * 30) Key t'oong she-t'eu ch'oot-ki.
 * 31) She-t'eu chon-loy wah-key-tea.
 * 32) Ngi mean-tsow-nyit yeeoo loy.

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


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 were permitted to supervise it in every detail. And now here was Esta missing, and here was undoubtedly some such communication as he might have left. He picked it up, eager to read it, but at that moment his mother came into the room and, seeing it in his hand, exclaimed: “What's that? A note? Is it from her?” He surrendered it and she unfolded it, reading it quickly. He noted that her strong broad face, always tanned a reddish brown, blanched as she turned away toward the outer room. Her biggish mouth was now set in a firm, straight line. Her large, strong hand shook the least bit as it held the small note aloft.

“Asa!” she called, and then tramping into the next room where he was, his frizzled grayish hair curling distractedly above his round head, she said: “Read this.” Clyde, who had followed, saw him take it a little nervously in his pudgy hand, his lips, always weak and beginning to crinkle at the center with age, now working curiously. Any one who had known his life's history would have said it was the expression, slightly emphasized, with which he had received most of the untoward blows of his life in the past.

“Tst! Tst! Tst!” was the only sound he made at first, a sucking sound of the tongue and palate—most weak and inadequate, it seemed to Clyde. Next there was another “Tst! Tst! Tst!”, his head beginning to shake from side to side. Then, “Now, what do you suppose could have caused her to do that?” Then he turned and gazed at his wife, who gazed blankly in return. Then, walking to and fro, his hands behind him, his short legs taking unconscious and queerly long steps, his head moving again, he gave vent to another ineffectual “Tst! Tst! Tst!”

Always the more impressive, Mrs. Griffiths now showed herself markedly different and more vital in this trying situation, a kind of irritation or dissatisfaction with life itself, along with an obvious physical distress, seeming to pass through her like a visible shadow. Once her husband had gotten up, she reached out and took the note, then merely glared at it again, her face set in hard yet stricken and disturbing lines. Her manner was that of one who is intensely disquieted and dissatisfied, one who fingers savagely at a material knot and yet cannot undo it, one who seeks restraint and freedom from complaint and yet who would complain bitterly, angrily. For behind her were all those years of religious work and faith, which somehow, in her poorly integrated conscience, seemed dimly to indicate that she should justly have been spared this. Where was her

title: Page:An American Tragedy Vol 1.pdf/33


text:
The Red Book Magazine/Volume 10/Number 3/The Climber

Just a scrawl, before I cut for Faubourg St. Honoré and the embassy. Thursday, when I was waiting for final instructions from the duke, I was button-holed on the steps of the St. James by an oily scoundrel in faded green and fringed heels. He “corralled” me, as your people say, picked at my sleeve quite mysteriously, and murmuring, through a fine odor of gin, that he had some valuable papers which really ought to come under my eye.

Being as romantic as ever I listened, instead of handing him over to a “bobby.” Then, with another oily smile, he murmured something about even second-sons being cautious. He went on, funereally about the youngest offspring of the foreign-office entourage keeping clear of scandals, blathering on about home-prejudices and the dangers of any union between old-families and American women. When he mentioned your name I was on the point of sending him kiting into the gutter, right there in Piccadilly. But I remembered the row you had kicked up last winter down in Surrey when Lady Boxspur's maid carried off your papers and that box of letters. And to make it even worse, while I stood there listening to the bandit in the green coat, up walks the duke himself, sniffing as audibly and pounding the pavement as hard as usual. Besides all this, I thought it might give me a clew to those stolen letters. And there was the duke, waiting for me, peering over his hawk-nose and pounding the steps with his stick.

So I meekly paid the blackmailer his five pounds, to save a scene. I had a chance for just a moment's glance into it, inside the club, and what the dickens it's all about I don't know. Then I called a messenger and sent it right on to you—for I could see it was yours—and is something about your newspaper-work in America and all that sort of thing. Five pounds for a scrap-book! I had to rush to catch the Paris train, without even a note, explaining. Of course, all that talk about secrecy is rot—what if you were a newspaper-writer once, over in the States!

By the way, that reminds me—I'm awfully sorry you rowed with Nannie; she's the only sister who really cared for me, and I wanted you two to be famous friends. You mustn't say it was catty because she let out about the newspaper work before the duchess—that was my fault, all my fault. You see, it leaked out so gradually (as you say, it will take twenty years to make me a diplomat!) when I was talking to the pater about you. You know, he's awfully keen on what he always calls your “get-to-it-iveness,” and driving up, one night, he told me, a little wistfully, that he would have been Chancellor of the Exchequer if he'd had the sort of wife I'm going to have! And the governor never enthuses!

But, at any rate, I was telling him about how, when you first came to London on that newspaper-consignment—no, you call it “assignment,” don't you—when you were ill at the Cecil, with the influenza, and how the hotel-doctor kept wondering and worrying because your temperature always went up in the morning, and down at night, contrary to all theory and experience, until you happened to tell him that you had been doing night-work on a New York paper for—how long was it?—making day night, and night day, and all that. It was simply to illustrate some silly argument about the force of habit, you know—but that's how it got out, and how Nannie got to know. Nannie, I'm afraid, never makes up—I never saw an Attenham yet who didn't smell to heaven with pride—so you try and see what you can do, you're so confoundedly good at that sort of thing.

I got the Queen with the announcement of The Event. It made me feel very solemn, to read that stately paragraph, as if I were royalty about to wed. You had it worded very nicely, and it ought to smooth down some of the Attenham feathers. But I wish you hadn't put off the date again. At least I wish you had spoken to me first. For C. W. has just had it straight from the Old Boy himself—I mean Downing Street, not the Devil, of course!—and has been so reckless to whisper it on to me, that it would be a “knighthood,” and would come along with the Birthday Honors. After all, Lady Attenham wont [sic] sound so awfully bad, will it, little woman? And this is only the beginning, you know.

Yet, honestly, I don't see how I'm going to wait all this time till The Event. Ever since that afternoon we rode side by side along that dusty Fez road into Tangier and you refused to make a mess of my career by cabling home your story about the Morocco mix-up—and how long ago it seems!—ever since then, I feel that we two have done nothing but labor and scheme and climb. And I want a little rest. I want to get comfy, with just you, ! Of course I know you were right in saying the title ought to come before The Event—in fact, you are always right—you seem able to think so many moves ahead of the game. But let's take it easy for a while; this pace rather makes my head swim, especially when I'm so far away from you.

But thanks awfully for the wire giving me the tip about the Kitchener rumpus. It helped me out magnificently. We win again, apparently. The duke will be bowled over at the news—and everything sliced out as clean as a whistle! But be awful careful about approaching the Thunderer. That's facing big guns, you know, and they might be rather nasty if they wanted to. But why bother, anyway? And why bother, too, sticking it out at the Whitson-Reids' if it's so uncomfortable, until The Event? It would sound better, as you said, but we're only going to live once, dear, and above all things I want you to be happy, whether we succeed or fail. (But could you be happy, I wonder, if you were not succeeding?)

Be sure to dress warmly if you go to the Four-in-Hand with old Bayanauiski. Honestly, little woman, I wish you wouldn't knock about with that old bag of bones too much, even if he is a prince. He has a horrible name in Petersburg; and all London knows what he is. Of course, if you can get anything about the Saghalien coast-fortifications keep your ears open, but I don't like your mixing up in this sort of business now.

As I said before, I want you to rest, and to be happy. And we shall be happy when once we're together, sha'n't we? Try and be at the Puddicombes' Tuesday at five. The mater's dropping in for tea—she brought home a lot of Indian beadwork from Banff and wants you to tell her if it's real or not. The dear old mater. She's not your kind, but I want you to love her! But more than all I want you to love her son—which is me! So here's a hug, little woman, and uncounted X X X's, until I see you. I've missed and needed you awfully, time and time again, over here. You know how thick-headed I get when you're not about to do my extra thinking for me. Meet me at Charing Cross next Monday or Tuesday night—I'll wire the train—and we'll bubble to C. C's. and talk things over. Be sure to wear a veil.

And don't forget about old Bayanauiski. And if you go to the Turf Club, go with the Churchills. I'm counting and marking off the days until The Event. A Seine full, a Channel full, a Thames full of love!

Always your own,.

P. S.—I wonder if you will let me read that scrap-book through some day?

,

Why should I not let you read this scrap-book through? You paid five pounds for it. That makes it yours. So I'm mailing it over to you, at once—or, rather, what there is left of it. In one way, I'm not altogether ashamed of my past. And if you're ever to be ashamed of your wife, then I'm already ashamed of you! But I've never told you much about my newspaper-work in America because I always felt it would be so hard to make you understand.

Conditions over there are so different. For example, I know you call yourself democratic—you said you used to wear a flannel shirt at Magdalen, a sign and proof thereof. But I know you always pinned that flannel collar together with a little gold hunting-whip studded with pearls! Your democracy is very different from what mine used to be. And it's so hard to explain. You remember how you laughed when I couldn't make out what you meant by “getting your colors” at Eton or Oxford, or wherever it was? Well, there are certain things in my country so understood I could hardly explain them.

That's why I want you to read this scrap-book—this poor little faded and yellow colored volume that was once the pride of my youth. You can do it on the train, coming home, if you have no time until then. I was too cowardly, I think, to show it to you, at first; I was still half-afraid of myself. But now I don't care. And if anything should happen to me, it would help you to understand.

I want you to realize how hard I've always had to work for things. I want you to see how I've always paid for everything I got. Your life is so different. Your country is so different. Over here you seem born to things; you wait and step into dead men's places. Where I come from, we always have to climb, and climb alone. That's what makes me feel what you said about “resting” being out of the question. I think the fever's in my blood. It makes me almost afraid of myself, sometimes. That's one of the reasons I liked you, from the first. You always seemed so cool and equable and resting. I've always felt, with you, as if I were sitting in the quiet shade, away from the noise and dust of things. Dear old Bertie!

I'm afraid I'm not making this letter either lucid or interesting. But I'm strangely worn and tired these last few days, for some reason. I feel unsettled. I wish you had stayed in London. Young de Girardin yesterday explained to me that it was the Bulgarian advance on Sujuk that forced the Turkish commissioners to delimit the vilayet of Adrianople frontier, and the report is to be signed on the 19th. I'll be very, very careful at the Four-in-Hand. I don't think the danger will be from cold.

Bayanauiski is dropping in for tea to-morrow. The old dear sent me American Beauties to-day, with a French verse tied to them. I believe he's rather fond of me. His eyes are exactly like a mastiff's. I don't believe half the things they say of him. Don't you think it's because his official work makes him so many enemies?. You'll be that way yourself, when you're Foreign Secretary and old and cranky—but you'll never have eyes like a mastiff! There is nothing new in the Saghalien Coast matter. I'm glad you're getting on so well, but I'm sorry you miss me. Why? Oh, I could hardly explain.

This is a stupid letter. I can't write more now. And you will think the scrapbook stupid, too! I tried to make up with Nannie, but she is relentless—the Attenham blood for you!

I can't go to the Turf Club with the Churchills—Bayanauiski, is calling for me with the drag. But don't worry, I'll be sure to dress warmly. Be sure to let me know in advance the day you come back. As always,.

Alice Emma Taussig, the clever young daughter of “Big John” Taussig, recited a beautiful poem entitled “Sometime.” Her rendition of these lines elicited an encore, after which she rendered a piece on the piano, thus blending the divine arts of music and poetry in a manner to uplift above the stern realities of life. It augurs well for the culture of Salina Gulch that at the next weekly meeting of the U. W. P. Club, which will be held in The Freemasons Hall, Miss Taussig is to read an original essay on The Religious Belief Of Robert Browning.—Salina Gulch Tri-Weekly Argus.

Miss Alice Taussig, the first young lady graduate of The Spencer Academy, will be a full-fledged Salina Gulch schoolteacher at the beginning of the year. Although still young, Alice's advanced position in literature and culture is a sure index of her spirit of progress, and an earnest that she will keep abreast of the times, which the teachers of this town have always done. She is, moreover, a brilliant scholar, being a graduate of the C. L. S. C., and having earned both the white and garnet seals. “Big John” is proud of his girl, and so are we.—Salina Gulch Tri-Weekly Argus.

Miss Alice Taussig, the brilliant young daughter of “Big John” Taussig, of MacDoughall Street, and who has been so successfully conducting the “Home Column” in The Sentinel, has given up teaching. She left yesterday to take an important position on the staff of the Salt Lake Journal, where we all wish her God-speed. The social and intellectual circles of Salina Gulch will feel the loss of Miss Taussig's brilliant mentality.—Salina Gulch Weekly Sentinel.

Alice Taussig, who has been society-editress of the Journal for the last four months, is to be added to the forces of our brilliant Sunday-staff. It was Miss Taussig, our readers will recall, who secured the Journal interview from Judge Charles Tripp, of Fort Smith, the American “Judge Jeffries,” who has sentenced more men to death than any other judge in the history of jurisprudence. As Judge Tripp had never before talked to an interviewer, Miss Taussig's revelations marked an advance in western journalism.—Salt Lake City Journal.

One of the most prominent persons brought to Union by the execution was Alice Taussig of the Salt Lake Journal. Alice is all business. A stranger would never take this small, blue-gray eyed, and altogether unassuming young lady for a journalist with a growing reputation. But Alice is an interesting writer, and a lady, too. To which same our “snake-editor'” adds that she's the finest looking girl who ever rode into Union. Alice expressed the hope that we would not give her a roast for coming to Union to see a man hung, especially as she had interviewed him in his cell three weeks beforehand, thereby scooping the New York Star reporter who had been sent west for the same purpose. We wish all the women of Franklin County could hear Alice Taussig express her opinion of those of her sex who crowd to such places merely to satisfy morbid curiosity. She was present as a soldier on duty. She had her orders for the interview, and later for the execution. She would charge a battery if her employers wanted her to write up the real sensations of the situation. She stood within six paces of Henry Broutow when he went through the trap because her duty as a journalist took her there. Enterprise is not restricted to sex in these days.—Union Daily Picayune.

At 12:45 Clerk Brown read the death warrant to Broutow, and preparations for the march to the gallows began. At 12:50 Sheriff Ford, with hat in hand, closely followed by Broutow between deputies Patterson and Gebhert, walked from the jail to the enclosure. Up the steps with firm and steady stride marched the prisoner. Already on the scaffold were Alice Taussig, the talented lady-reporter of the Journal, and two male representatives of the Call and the New York Star. A notable feature of the execution was that all the doctors who became so conspicuous in the different trials cravenly absented themselves from the execution. Sheriff Ford received much praise from all sides for the efficient way in which he performed his duty. Never having witnessed an execution, in two days he had prepared everything. The whole program went through as prepared, without a flaw, though on account of short notice Broutow's parents and many friends were not advised in time. The only irregular incident was just before the cap was drawn over Broutow's head. He was asked if he had anything to say. He said “Yes,” in a firm, loud voice, which was heard even at the foot of the scaffold. Then he turned and faced the lady-reporter of the Journal. “I don't deserve this,” he said. “And there stands the woman who will have to answer for my death!” By this it is generally accepted that Broutow firmly believed that his pardon would have been signed by the governor if Miss Taussig had not sent to her paper his full confession. As the Echo has already stated, this confession was cleverly secured by Miss Taussig, who dressed as a nun and visited Broutow in his cell. The report that the Journal representative fainted on the scaffold, at the last moment, when Broutow made his erratic accusation, is stoutly denied by the Journal editor and Miss Taussig herself.—Morgan Echo.

—Are you open to consider offer to join Planet special staff and how soon? Dwyer, San Francisco Planet.—Copy of telegram from Planet Office, San Francisco, with “Mr. Dwvyer's first offer” written in script on the margin.

The portrait given to-day on the first page of the Mecca is that of Miss Alicia Taussig, one of America's foremost women-journalists. It is not a year since Miss Taussig joined the staff of the San Francisco Planet. Miss Taussig is a Salina Gulch girl. But it did not take her long to break the shell of her chrysalis, the mountain-walled valleys of Utah where she started in her profession, and with new wings unfurled she flew to the sunny fields of the Pacific slope. Miss Taussig comes of a fine old Maryland and Pennsylvania family that once counted soldiers and judges among its members, and three revolutionary heroes of the same name give this young authoress her place as a Daughter Of The American Revolution. She was also one of the Reception Committee of the San Francisco Press Club to receive Whitcomb Riley last week.—Denver Mecca.

Through the courtesy of Mrs. Auguste Shenck we have been permitted to inspect a number of the copies of the New York Star, containing articles from the pen of Alicia Taussig, the brilliant young daughter of Mr. John Taussig of MacDoughall Street and niece of Mrs. Shenck. Alice has made an enviable reputation for herself in the East, and is just beginning. Her feature of last Sunday's Star is her signed article showing the inner workings of the Jersey fruit-canneries. To obtain this information Alice applied for work as a day-laborer, and sorted, peeled, and cut fruit. She is also good at political reporting and interviewing, and secured for the Star the advance story of Senator Delane's bolt. Her position as society-editress has also brought her in touch with Gotham's Four Hundred, where she is welcomed as much for her beauty of face and charm of manner as for her prestige as a chronicler of Society's passing show.—Salina Gulch Sentinel.

Salt Lake City still wants to hog things. The Journal of that town has been claiming Alicia Taussig as a Salt Lake girl. Alicia was born and bred right here in Salina Gulch and got the early training, that is making her the cynosure of all eyes in New York, at the same desk where we now write these lines. But now that Alicia is famous because she had the spunk to go down to the bottom of the Patapsco River in the Argonaut, our new submarine, the Salt Lake Journal is trying to claim her for its own.—Salina Gulch Sentinel.

Alicia Taussig, New York's most brilliant woman-journalist, will visit each of the different European capitals for the Daily Star and give America her valuable personal impressions on “How To Beautify Our Cities.” Virile of intellect, indomitable of will, alert, clear-sighted, and with all the natural endowments of the true critic and observer, Alicia Taussig is still a sensitive, tender, warm-hearted woman, throbbing with sympathy for the lowly and the unfortunate. For this reason Miss Taussig's letters to the Star will also partake of the nature of studies in sociology, as she treats of the factories and slums of the different great cities she is to visit. The first two letters will deal exhaustively with London; and the next two will cover Paris.—New York Daily Star.

—Hold back London article and interview B. Attenham, British Foreign Office, now at Gibraltar. Get facts if breach of Algeciras Conference in England's forcible interception of moving-picture machines sent by Germany to incite religious war at Fez. Wire full story; rush.—Cablegram from G. H. P. New York Daily Star, New York.

—Equip at Tangier and follow Attenham to Fez. Investigate Moorish outbreak at Safru and connect with moving-picture machine outrages. Wire everything on Attenham mission; draw on us at Cook's; rush.—Cablegram from G. H. P. New York Daily Star, New York.

—Must have Attenham story. London and Berlin data waiting confirmation; am sending Struthers down from Paris to help. Rush.—Cablegram from G. H. P. New York Daily Star, New York.

—Cannot understand your scruples; wire story or wire resignation; immediate.—Cablegram from G. H. P. New York Daily Star, New York.

(Below this, written in script, in woman's hand: “The End.”)

Rescued from Raisuli—Intrepid American Woman Captured By The Notorious Moroccan Bandit and Later Rescued By British Envoy—Had Been Warned At Two Consulates Not To Attempt The Interior—Brereton Avering Attenham, Who Personally Effected The Rescue, Refuses All Information—Captured Woman Said To Be Young American.—Heading of despatch from the London Daily Mail, with body of article removed from scrap-book, but with woman's handwriting along empty column: “Oh, Bertie, Bertie, if they only knew!”

Professor O'Malley, after the inner-man had been satisfied by the good things served by the ladies of the society in the basement, then spoke on “Some Famous Graduates of Spencer Academy.” He had an easy subject, and he made it more than interesting. Beginning with Alicia Taussig, the first graduate, who is a daughter of “Big John” 'Taussig of MacDoughall Street and who has long since worked her way up to the top of the literary ladder, he told of how it was a Utah woman who infused a new spirit of aggressiveness into Eastern journalism, enumerating some of the wonderful feats which Miss Taussig had accomplished.—The Salina Gulch Tri-Weekly Argus.

(Thereafter followed a number of clippings from, apparently, London society journals. Each clipping was so heavily overscored with blue pencil-strokes as to be practically undecipherable. The only one left intact was a report from The Queen, of the presentation at Court of Miss Alicia Taussig, of New York City.

III

Yesterday in St. Stephen's Chapel, London, Miss Alicia Emelia Taussig, of New York City, was married to Prince Ignace Ormsdorff Bayanauiski. The service was a private one, the only persons present being the private secretary of the Prince, and a Mrs. Auguste Shenck, an aunt of the bride, who is en route from Rotterdam to America.—London dispatch to the Paris Edition of The New York Herald.

The Bayanauiski-Taussig marriage has somewhat set London astir. Alicia Emelia Taussig was one of the most striking figures in London social circles, and her beauty, combined with her American breeziness of manner, made her everywhere popular. During the last few months her name has been coupled with that of one of the younger and more ambitious members of the foreign-office staff, already listed for promotion because of his brilliant work during the recent Moroccan trouble. In fact, one reputable society journal of this city has already published an announcement of the formal engagement of Miss Taussig to the officer in question, but it is now conceded that any such announcement must have been either ill-founded or premature, to say the least. The groom, Prince Bayanauiski, besides being one of the most distinguished of the Russian notabilities who have elected to reside in England during the present political unrest, also won fame through the Karakoran Frontier Arbitration and the winning of the Hague permission for the Saghalien Coast fortifications. There was some feeling, during the advance of the British Mission into Tibet, at what was considered the prince's over-active opposition to the foreign-office plans. That matter, however, has been long since forgotten, and during the past season the prince has abandoned his more onerous official duties for the distractions of society. He is the owner of vast estates in the neighborhood of Petrozavodsk, Olonetz, where, it is rumored, he will once more make his home, following the consummation of the civil and religious marriage-service in his church and country.

The aunt of the bride, Mrs. Shenck, who witnessed the ceremony at St. Stephen's, was questioned by the press-representative on her way to Liverpool to embark for New York. She was quite willing to talk, but could give no explanation of the hurried proceedings, beyond the fact that Miss Taussig had always been a young woman of both independent thought and tempestuous activity. Mrs. Shenck, whose face bore the unmistakable signs of recent weeping, corrected the report that Miss Taussig had been a New York girl, declaring that her niece had been born and brought up in the town of Salina Gulch, Utah.

It was only last week that His Excellency The Czar caused to be conferred on Prince Bayanauiski, on the occasion of the latter's seventy-fourth birthday, the Badge of the Order of St. Andrew.—Special dispatch to the Paris edition of The New York Herald.


text: Talk:The Red Book Magazine/Volume 10/Number 3/The Climber


text:
The Red Book Magazine/Volume 19/Number 1/The Juggler

ENJAMIN SPINDEL had a Good Fairy. He was never quite sure what this Good Fairy should have been called. Sometimes she seemed best described as A-Sense-Of-Humor. More often, however, he preferred to know her as Fame.

For Fame, to Spindel, was something which came to you over-night, like a cold in the head, or a milk-bottle at the door. You simply woke up and found it there. The mere thought of it, waiting like a gnome on your doorstep, was something to send a tingle of romance through the small hours of the chilliest night, if you only made it a point to remember.

Not that Spindel ever quite forgot. For there were two things about Spindel that always surprised his friends. One was his industry; the other was his optimism.

Unlike so many others whose blood had been fevered by the virus of stage-life, this doggedly industrious disciple of Romance never let the day be sufficient unto itself. Idleness, in fact, was a luxury he could not afford. He was at least a plodder. And he believed, as he used to put it, in taking the bull by the horns.

So his immediate object in life was not so much to discover the fairy on the threshold as to keep the wolf from the door itself. Yet he nursed the entirely romantic delusion that Fame was something on which one might stub one's toe in the dark. Success was a sort of accident, the same as finding a dime on the street-curb: you went to bed a plodding juggler of a dozen or two wooden puppets, and you woke up the Greatest Dramatist of the Age.

For Spindel's ambition, even when he came, a raw youth from the Middle West, was not merely to be an actor. He nursed, in fact, an abhorrence for grease-paint and call-boards and dressing-rooms and hydrogenated coiffures. He made no secret of the fact that his work on the stage was only a means to an end. Like an illustrious Elizabethan prototype to whom he often referred, he merely played parts that in the end he might learn to write them. For Spindel, like Shakespeare, wanted to be a playwright.

Like this prototype already referred to, Spindel was not essentially a man of letters. He prided himself on being one of the people. This claim was advanced, perhaps, in extenuation of certain oddities of orthography, for to the end Spindel was always a little weak in his spelling. But he was both adaptive and courageous, and no one could accuse him of not keeping his ears cocked and his eyes open. He nosed through life like a beagle nosing through bracken; he basked over street-quarrels like a parent over a cradle; he blinked at park-lovers like a hawk at a young rabbit, always hoping to scare up a new “scene” or a new “situation.” So, while the weekly pay-envelope of the actor was keeping the pot boiling, his experiences behind the foot-lights were initiating him into the tricks of the theatrical trade. He was devouring knowledge as silently and as persistently as any army-worm devours herbage.

Yet after three years of playing small parts, and playing them none too well, he concluded that the back of the curtain had little more to teach him. He wanted to get out and see life “in the raw,” yet nowhere, ironically enough, would he ever see its rawness less veiled than under the mask of the mummer. Here again, however, a sort of blithe practicality on his part kept interposing. He continued to mark time as a play-actor, bending his neck to the yoke for the sake of a small but ever assured weekly envelope.

It could be called nothing more than marking time, for all his ardor, all his energy, was now being poured into his own secret pursuits. He was now giving his time and thought to the writing of plays—magnificently planned dramas which, by some odd mischance, never saw the light of day, and laboriously conceived comedies which, unfortunately, no one ever heard of.

His vocational hours, in fact, became a sort of somnambulism; he went through them with all the impersonal detachment of a sleep-walker. He was, by this time, living only in his writing. As his parts grew smaller and smaller, his pay-envelope, in turn, grew thinner and thinner. But despair was unknown to Spindel. He still believed in the Fairy outside the door. He still passed vaguely elated and optimistic among his old-time friends of the stage, wearing the veiled smile of an adventurer who has learned the secret of some lost treasure.

“There's a guy they'll never grind down,” said Gunderman's stage-manager, as he watched Spindel one day pocket his rejected 'script and trudge smiling and undaunted down to Broadway.

“They wont [sic] grind him down—he'll just wear down,” retorted the apathetic Gunderman, to whom the years had brought wisdom and a weak digestion. And so fixed was Gunderman's mind as to this fact that he appropriated without hesitation a page or two of Spindel's third-act dialogue. It was nothing more, he argued with himself, than taking a plank or two from a passing derelict.

As Spindel climbed the stairs to that Twenty-second Street back room which he dignified as his “studio,” his bearing took on an added touch of insouciance. He even whistled, and affected a bit of a swagger.

And he had his reasons for this. For Spindel had been heaven-born optimist enough to bring a wife to New York with him out of the terra incognita of the Middle West. And that wife was young, and perhaps not always appreciative of the humoristic turns of over-ambiguous human destinies. She saw the 'script under her husband's arm, and she went to the window and looked out.

“My dear, those managers are positively funny!” blithely avowed Spindel, as he put his play in its pigeon-hole with the air of a victor putting his sword in its scabbard. “And all I say is, I'm thankful I can keep my sense of humor and see what a queer lot they are!”

“I wish they'd taken the play,” said his wife, with the unimaginative immediacy of her sex, as she went back to her work of turning a last winter's skirt.

“But I'm getting closer to 'em, all the time,” chirped the indomitable Spindel. “I'm getting wise to their curves. I'm getting so I can humor 'em!”

And Spindel set to work writing a new play. He had to skimp and economize a good deal, by this time, for he could now get nothing more than an occasional “super“ part to keep the pot boiling. But he accepted the dingy back-room studio and the meager meals cooked on a one-hole gas-stove as calmly as an exiled prince accepts the exigencies of a banishment recognized as only a matter of time. He became oblivious of them. He went back to his play like an opium-smoker back to his drug. He revised and re-arranged and revamped He closed his eyes, valiantly, and cut away whole act-ends, at one grim stroke, like a surgeon operating on his own flesh and blood.

So he watched over his newborn play, and nursed it, and re-dressed it in epigram, and decorated it with a newer ribbon or two of fancy. Then he carried it off to the agencies and the managers' offices, with the blind pride of a mother carrying her first-born to a baby-show.

That none of them could see any beauty in it struck him as ridiculous, as laughable. It almost took his breath away. But once more he came to realize, as he had so often tried to explain, that managers were a queer lot.

“If you can only keep your sense of humor, at this game!“ he persisted, with a wag of the head, as he read Gunderman's curt note of refusal.

So Spindel kept his sense of humor. He set to work again, as optimistic as ever. He once more became the prestidigitator; once more he laid out his worn and shoddy children of fancy, like a juggler laying out his “props.”

Then he lost himself in his work. Once more he ruthlessly disemboweled and re-arranged and re-articulated. Once more he shifted and sorted and pieced together. The result was something more wonderful, more Gothically embellished, than ever before. He once more buttressed it up and furbished and polished it, looking it over with contented shakes of the head.

“I'm learning the trick, my dear!” he jubilantly declared to his hollow-eyed wife as she stirred the veal-stew on its hot-plate next to the window. “I can see it coming closer, now, every day!”

And again Spindel began the rounds of the agencies and the managers' offices. And again the 'script came back to Spindel's dingy studio, and again it went out, and again it came back. Once more it moved the playwright to a mild and humorous wonder.

“Aren't they a funny lot? A rum lot?” he demanded. “Can't you see it, once you get a line on them and their ways?”

“No, it's not funny,” said his wife, limp and listless in her chair by the window. “It's not funny any more.”

He laughed as he put a hand on her thin shoulder.

“Just keep your sense of humor, my dear, and you'll see they are funny! Look how they contradict each other, even in their excuses! Look how one says, 'Cut down! Cut down!' and the other says, 'Build up! Build up!”

It was Spindel's blind theory that if you kept at a thing you won out—you simply had to win out, in the end. And such being his theory, he once more set to work. And finally, in vindication of this attitude, he actually went about showing a contract with a Western producing-agent, who had attached a “phony” curtain to one of Spindel's earlier first-acts and converted it into a vaudeville sketch for a Chicago comedian.

This sketch seemed to bring new life to Spindel. He not only appeased an expostulatory landlord and a long-threatening gas company, but he also indulged in the extravagance of two Hartz Mountain canaries, “to liven up the studio a bit,” as he blithely explained to his wife; and he planned out intricate and extended shopping expeditions.

But the vaudeville sketch, after a run of three weeks, came to an abrupt and untimely end. Just why this was, the dazed author could never quite understand. And it saddened him a little to think that it had lived and died without once having come under the eye of its creator. Yet these one-act things, he cheerily added, were never worth crying over. In fact, there was something humorous about it all, he still maintained. He thanked his lucky stars he could still see the funny side of it.

He refused to give it much thought, however, for already he had a new play to work on. This new play, like the others, became a sort of pot au feu, into which went every fragment that could be shaved from the bones of his past efforts, every shred of an idea that could be caught up from the passing moment. He wrote on and on, still believing in the Fairy outside the door. He sent out his 'script, still nursing the delusion that he was going to find Fame hanging by one hand to his mail-box down in the dingy front-hall. And as he shuffled down in his tattered slippers, ten times a day, he thanked Heaven that he could still see the humor of it all, and went up to chirrup and whistle somewhat pensively into the swinging canary cage and then turn once more back to his writing.

It was one rainy morning when even the canaries refused to sing that the Ultimate Idea came to him. Times, he had to confess, were getting a bit tight. Things were no longer as rosy as they ought to be. It was too late for shillyshallying: conditions seemed to call for a coup de main. And here he was with seven fine plays all about him, seven plays of his own. None of them could be all bad; even those human sheep known as managers confessed that one had a good scene here, and another had a good curtain there, and a third a good idea somewhere else. But none had quite floated him out to the sea of prosperity. Then, demanded Spindel of himself, why not lash the lot together? Why not tie them up in one raft, cut away what was not needed, and let that one final venture swing out to sink or swim?

This amalgamative idea became first an intoxication and then an obsession. The work-worm playwright threw himself into the task with a fury that disturbed even his wife, who absented herself more and more from that unkempt and paper-littered back room, where Spindel strode up and down in his tattered slippers, enacting the rôles he was re-organizing. She even upbraided him for scandalizing their neighbors with his enigmatically passionate utterances, with his frenzied self-altercations, with his climacteric shouts of scorn and triumph. He even forgot his wife and her existence. He uttered no protest as she took her departure for the day. He merely looked at her in his vacant and unseeing way when she, somewhat defiantly, told him that she was off to look for work of her own. He only nodded diffident assent when she somewhat challengingly informed him that her cousin, Jim Ecklin, was taking her to the Hippodrome.

For Spindel], in truth, was engaged in one of the most extraordinary juggling feats of all his feverish-fingered juggler's career. Into that one and final play he was chrushing [sic] and crowding everything that was worth carrying off from everything he had ever written, much like a shipwrecked traveler packing into one portmanteau the cream of all his belongings. He was molding his whole life into one forlorn amalgam. He was making that last play a sort of Irish stew of all his dead issues. He scraped the bones of each dessicating [sic] skeleton for its last enriching tatter of meat. He journeyed back through each abandoned structure for some last sustaining beam of action. He crawled over each devastated scene for some chance sparkle of epigram embedded in its ruins.

Then he once more polished it and furbished it, and so pretentious and flashing did that new façade stand to him, that for the first time in his life he indited a peremptory letter in which he put forth certain peremptory demands, and sent both letter and play-script off to Gunderman, knowing only too well that this time it was all or nothing

In the meantime winter had advanced, and the cold had set its teeth in the flank of the attenuated Spindel abode. The rigors of mid-December reminded the playwright that both the body and its habitation were in keener need of fuel. So Spindel took advantage of the holiday season and earned a few dollars as an extra ticket-taker in a Fourteenth Street moving-picture house. The pay was not lordly; but his gas-bills and his arrears of rent he could for the time ignore. Those more exigent claims which rose from the pit of the human stomach, however, could not be ignored. He also remembered that he had his wife and his two canaries to feed. He hated moving-pictures; they were the darkest enemy of the dramatic artist. But he could live it down, once he had got started, once he had made his hit. And as he trudged homeward, with his half-pound of Hamburger steak, he looked more and more anxiously into the mail-box. But it always seemed to be empty.

Spindel wondered if even a sense of humor could not lose its elasticity in time. So one morning he took the bull by the horns, as it were. He made his toilet, such as it was, with the minutest care, and invaded Broadway and the Gunderman stronghold.

Gunderman, he was told, had been called to Chicago. He had either taken the 'script with him or mislaid it. But no word had come to the office as to its fate. And for a week or two, nothing was likely to be done.

Spindel, that night, spent a long time over his task of feeding the canaries. His own hunger he appeased in a much briefer period. It was after nine o'clock when his wife came home, silent and self-contained. She told him, casually, that she had already eaten supper. But later in the evening, as she stood peering into the canary cage, she broke into tears, for no appreciable reason. It was the next day that Spindel began pawning things, surreptitiously taken from their dingy back room.

For some days he wandered about the city looking for work, as destitute of direction as a lost child looking for home. Late in the afternoon of the fourth day he trudged back to his “studio,” a little dizzy in the head and a little weak in the knees. But he wanted to make sure the canaries were fed.

He found it hard to climb the steps. In the mail-box, at the side of the shabby old hall, he found two letters waiting for him. He climbed the stairs, step by step, and as he let himself into his room he saw a square of paper tacked on his door. He swung back the door and peered up at it.

He realized, as he studied it, that it was a “'dispossess” notice. He slowly pulled it from the soiled panel, stepped into the room, and closed the door after him.

“Allie!” he called, for the light was not 'strong.

He looked about and saw with a deep breath of relief that his wife was not there. Then he slowly crossed the room and sat down by the window, under the canary cage. Then he put the letters on the ledge in front of him. He was very leisurely about it, yet he could feel his heart in his throat, pounding like an automatic riveter.

The first letter was in his wife's handwriting. He opened the envelope and slowly unfolded the single sheet it held. On it he read:

"I've tried hard to stay with you, Benny. But a woman's got to have clothes and things. And I couldn't stand it any longer. I've thought it all over. I'm going to New Orleans with Jim this afternoon. Jim says he'll see I never want for anything. It's the only thing left for me. I hate to go this way, but I can't help it, and I can't stand it any longer. ."

Spindel read the penciled sheet for the second time. Then he slowly folded it up and put it on the window-ledge in front of him. He sat there for several minutes, without moving. Then he turned the second letter over in his hand.

He found it hard to open, for his eyes were not clear. A yellow mist, like street-fog, seemed to float between him and the paper. The first thing that struck him was the blue tint of the oblong enclosure. He looked at it, vacantly, for several seconds. Then he held it up to the light and saw it was a check. Then he slowly unfolded the letter and read it

It neither startled nor elated him. He dimly remembered that it was from Gunderman's office. He was vaguely conscious that Gunderman himself was writing and saying that the four-act play, entitled “Fool's Gold,” by Benjamin Spindel, would be put in rehearsal the following Monday, for a New York production. It also, as far as he could make out, requested a receipt for the one thousand dollars in advance royalties, duly enclosed, the additional five hundred to cover advance on the London production, on the definite understanding that the author surrender to the said Gunderman all English rights and—but Spindel was no longer interested.

He slowly unfolded the first letter and slowly read it through again.

“I'm going to New Orleans with Jim this afternoon.”

He read it aloud, as though the words were written in a foreign tongue, as though it were a text he could not comprehend. Then he looked at the blue oblong of the check. He looked at it for several minutes, without moving. Then he laughed, quietly, softly, without mirth and without emotion. He had lost his belief in the Fairy just outside the door.

He sat in deep thought, for several moments. Then he pinned the two letters together, and taking a clean sheet of paper, wrote on it nine short words. Then he laughed again, quietly, but still without emotion. The words he wrote were:

He looked meditatively about and finally put the three slips of paper on the table in the center of the room. Then he carefully lifted the canary cage from its hook and placed it on the floor of the dusky hallway, outside his door. He locked the door, as he stepped inside, and again looked meditatively about the shadowy room. Then he took a number of newspapers and slowly tore them into strips. With these he carefully battened the cracks about the door, and the joints of the loose window-sashes. He did not even overlook the keyhole. Then, as he crossed the room, he re-read aloud the words he had written:

“This is too much for my sense of humor!”

He calmly drew the blinds. Then he groped his way back to where the green tubing, connecting the hot-plate with the gas-pipe, ran along the wall. He padded «bout until he found the stop-cock. Then he turned it on, full.

He re-crossed the room to the sagging spring couch, remembering to cover himself with the worn comforter, as he lay down on the soiled bedding. He closed his eyes. He only knew that he was tired, very tired. Then he fell asleep.

Spindel, who so often dreamed that Fame was going to be left at his door, like a bottle of milk, woke up to find his wife there at midnight, crying like a frightened child.

“Oh, I couldn't do it, Benny; I couldn't do it!” she wailed, bathed in her tears of contrition, as he stumbled to the door and swung it open. She clutched at his dazed and silent figure. She clung to him in a self-immuring ecstasy of despair.

“Oh, Benny, what'll we do? What'll we do?” she wailed.

“Do? How?” asked the still dazed Spindel.

“They've ordered us out!” she wept. “And we've no money. And they came and turned the gas off on us this morning!”

And Spindel, groping for her shaking body in the darkness, locked his arms about her and laughed.


text: Talk:The Red Book Magazine/Volume 19/Number 1/The Juggler


text:
Page:The Voyage Of Italy Or A Compleat Journey through Italy, The Second Part.pdf/214

 membred. Having thus gazed our fill at these statues and pictures, and by particular taking notice of-them, complimented the great Worthies they represent, we where let into the great Cabinets, or Chambers which joyn upon this Gallery.

First, we saw the Armory, that is, three or four great chambers full of exotick curiosities: as, the habits of two Indian Kings made of Parrats Feathers sowed together: the Habits of some Janissaries in Turkey, of red velvet set thick with little nailes of gold, which they can take out and dress up other sutes with: the habit of the King of China: the skin of a horse pasted upon a woodden horse, the mane of which horse is kept there in a box all at length, and it is above five ells long: This horse had been sent to the Great Duke by the Duke of Lorraine. Then we were shown Hannibals Helmet: the Helmet of Charles the V; the sword of Henry the IV of France; a curious Helmet thin and light, and yet of Musket proof; a huge


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 1


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 2


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 3


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 4


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 5


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 6


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 7


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 8


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 9


text:
Page:The Voyage Of Italy Or A Compleat Journey through Italy, The Second Part.pdf/215

 heavy Helmet and Sword of one of the old Paladins of France; the true sword of Scanderbeg, a world of Cimetars, scabards, caps, saddles and other Turkish furniture set thick with Turquoises in gold; a great Gun, whose thick barrel is of pure Gold, and yet as long as an ordinary fowling piece, and as heavy as a strong man can well level with: its valued at 150 pistols, and shoots twice as farr as another Gun of Iron doth, but kills (I believe) with the same pain that others do, though with a little more honour. Here is a great pistol of gold. Then the buona notte, or set of pistols, (five pistol barrels set together in an iron Frame) to put into your hat, and to be all shot off at once from thence, as you seem to salute your enemy and bid him Good night. The pistol with eighteen barrels in it, all to be shot off at once and scattering desperatly about a Roome, six little cannons set in starre-wise. The little Brass Cannon which may be taken in pieces presently, and set together


text: Works of Jules Verne/The Pearl of Lima/Chapter 10


text:
Page:An American Tragedy Vol 1.pdf/34

20 God, her Christ, at this hour when this obvious evil was being done? Why had He not acted for her? How was He to explain this? His Biblical promises! His perpetual guidance! His declared mercies!

In the face of so great a calamity, it was very hard for her, as Clyde could see, to get this straightened out, instantly at least. Although, as Clyde had come to know, it could be done eventually, of course. For in some blind, dualistic way both she and Asa insisted, as do all religionists, in disassociating God from harm and error and misery, while granting Him nevertheless supreme control. They would seek for something else—some malign, treacherous, deceiving power which, in the face of God's omniscience and omnipotence, still beguiles and betrays—and find it eventually in the error and perverseness of the human heart, which God has made, yet which He does not control, because He does not want to control it.

At the moment, however, only hurt and rage were with her, and yet her lips did not twitch as did Asa's, nor did her eyes show that profound distress which filled his. Instead she retreated a step and reëxamined the letter, almost angrily, then said to Asa: “She's run away with some one and she doesn't say” Then she stopped suddenly, remembering the presence of the children—Clyde, Julia, and Frank, all present and all gazing curiously, intently, unbelievingly. “Come in here,” she called to her husband, “I want to talk to you a minute. You children had better go on to bed. We'll be out in a minute.”

With Asa then she retired quite precipitately to a small room back of the mission hall. They heard her click the electric bulb. Then their voices were heard in low converse, while Clyde and Julia and Frank looked at each other, although Frank, being so young—only ten—could scarcely be said to have comprehended fully. Even Julia hardly gathered the full import of it. But Clyde, because of his larger contact with life and his mother's statement (“She's run away with some one”), understood well enough. Esta had tired of all this, as had he. Perhaps there was some one, like one of those dandies whom he saw on the streets with the prettiest girls, with whom she had gone. But where? And what was he like? That note told something, and yet his mother had not let him see it. She had taken it away too quickly. If only he had looked first, silently and to himself!

“Do you suppose she's run away for good?” he asked Julia dubiously, the while his parents were out of the room, Julia herself looking so blank and strange.

title: Page:An American Tragedy Vol 1.pdf/34