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THE SEARCH FOR ATOMIC AGE DIVISIONS

$1$ Col Stanley N. Lonning to Acting Assistant Commandant, The Infantry School (TIS), 23 Apt 53, sub: Proposed Reorganization of the Infantry and Airborne Divisions, UA 27.51 15 (4/23/53), Infantry School Library (ISL), Fort Benning, Ga.

$2$ John J. Midgley, Deadly Illusions: Army Policy for the Nuclear Battlefield (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1986), pp. 2–5.

$3$ Ltr, OCAFF to CG, Infantry Center, 28 Apr 52, sub: Organization of the Infantry Regiment, 28 Apr 52, ATTNG (Deputy Chief of Staff, G–3–Training)-23 322/6 (Regt) (28 Apr 52), ISL.

$4$ Report of Board of Officers, to CG, Infantry Center, 11 Aug 52, sub: Report of Board of Officers, ISL.

$5$ 1st Ind, TIS to OCAFF, 11 Aug 52, sub: Report of Board of Officers, GNKEAD-R 320 (11 Aug 52), and Ltr, Infantry School Representatives, XVII Airborne Corps, to CG, XVII Airborne Corps, 25 Sep 53, sub: Report of Evaluation, Phase III, Operation FALCON, Infantry School Representatives, ABCGC (Airborne Corps General Correspondence) 353 Opn FALCON, ISL: OCAFF, "Summary of Major Events and Problems, FY 1953," ch. 8, pp. 1–12, DAMH-HSR.

$6$ Ltr, Attack Group, Tactical Department, TIS, 28 Jul 52, sub: Proposed Reorganization of Infantry Units, ISL; Col Lonning to Acting Assistant Commandant, TIS, 23 Apr 53, sub: Proposed Reorganization of the Infantry and Airborne Divisions.

$7$ Matthew B. Ridgway, Soldier: The Memoirs of Matthew B, Ridgway (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1956), pp. 286–87; Ltr, OCofS to OCAFF, 19 Apr 54, sub; Organizational Studies to Improve the Army Combat Potential-to-Manpower Ratio, RG 337, Army Field Forces, NARA.

$8$ Midgley, Deadly Illusions, pp. 44–45; Ltr, OCofS to OCAFF, 19 Apr 54, sub: Organizational Studies to Improve the Army Combat Potential-to-Manpower Ratio, Ltr, OCAFF to Chief of Information, Department of the Army (CINFO), 13 Sep 54, sub: Fact Sheet, Project ATFA-1 (hereafter cited as Fact Sheet, Project ATFA-1, 13 Sep 54), both ATTIS (OCAFF, Information Section) 320, RG 337, NARA.

$9$
Fact Sheet, Project ATFA-1, 13 Sep 54; TOE 7 ATFA, Infantry Division, 30 Sep 1954.

$10$
Fact Sheet, Project ATFA-1, 13 Sep 54; TOE 17 ATFA, Armored Division, 30 Sep 1954.

$11$
Fact Sheet, Project ATFA-1, 13 Sep 54.

$12$
Ltr, CONARC to TAG and other addresses, 25 Apr 56, sub: Concept and Technical Review of the Tentative 1956 ATFA Infantry Division, ATTNG-D&R (Office of the CofS, G–3–Research and Development, 322/50 (Div) (25 Apr 56), and Ltr, CONARC to TAG and other addresses, 23 May 56, sub: Concept and Technical Review of the Tentative 1956 ATFA Armored Division, ATTNG-D&R 322/16 (Diy) (23 May 56), both Division General file, DAMH-HSO; Midgley, Deadly Illusions, p.49.

$13$
Moenk, Large-Scale Army Maneuvers, pp, 205–20; TOE 7, ATFA Infantry Division, 30 Jun 1955; TOE 17, ATFA Armored Division, 30 Jun 1955.

$14$
3d Infantry Division, Final Evaluation Report on the ATFA Infantry Division (TOE 77), 15 Jan 56, Command and General Staff College (CGSC) Library, Fort Leavenworth, Kans.; Ltr, CONARC to TAG and other addresses, 25 Apr 56, sub: Concept and Technical Review of the Tentative 1956 ATFA Infantry Division, ATTNG-D&R 322/50 (Div) (25 Apr 56), RG 337, NARA; Ltr, 1st Armd Div to CG, Fourth Army, 1 Jan 56, sub: Final Report on Exercise AKDHD-CG 354.2, and Ltr, Fourth Army to CG, CONARC, 13 Feb 56, Final Report, Exercise  AKADC-M-BEG 354.2, both CGSC Library; Ltr, CONARC to TAG and other addresses, 23 May 56, Concept and Technical Review of the Tentative 1956 ATFA Armored Division, ATTNG-D&R 322/16 (Div) (23 May 56), RG 337, NARA.

$15$
Ltr, CONARC to TAG and other addresses, 23 May 56, sub: Concept and Technical Review of the Tentative 1956 ATFA Armored Division, and Ltr, CONARC to TAG and other addresses, 25 Apr 56, sub: Concept and Technical Review of the Tentative 1956 ATFA Infantry Division.

$16$
Ltr, TAG to CG, CONARC, 6 Jun 56, sub: The 1956 Army Reorganization, AGAM-P


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POETRY: He has bowed to the voice stentorian,
 * Sick with thought of the grave—

He has called for his battered morion
 * And his scarred glaive.

On the boy's helm a glove
 * Of the Duke's daughter—

In his eyes splendor of love
 * And slaughter.

Hideous the Hun advances
 * Like a sea-tide on sand;

Unyielding, the haughty lances
 * Make dauntless stand.

And ever amid the clangor,
 * Butchering Hun and Hun,

With sorrowful face rides Sangar
 * And his son

Broken is the wild invader
 * (Sullied, the whole world's fountains);

They have penned the murderous raider
 * With his back to the mountains.

Yet tho' what had been mead
 * Is now a bloody lake,

Still drink swords where men bleed,
 * Nor slake.

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


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Somewhere I read a strange, old, rusty tale Smelling of war; most curiously named "The Mad Recreant Knight of the West." Once, you have read, the round world brimmed with hate, Stirred and revolted, flashed unceasingly Facets of cruel splendor. And the strong Harried the weak Long past, long past, praise God In these fair, peaceful, happy days.

The Tale: Eastward the Huns break border,
 * Surf on a rotten dyke;

They have murdered the Eastern Warder
 * (His head on a pike).

"Arm thee, arm thee, my father!
 * "Swift rides the Goddes-bane,

"And the high nobles gather
 * "On the plain!"

"O blind world-wrath!" cried Sangar,
 * "Greatly I killed in youth,

"I dreamed men had done with anger
 * "Through Goddes truth!"

Smiled the boy then in faint scorn,
 * Hard with the battle-thrill;

"Arm thee, loud calls the war-horn
 * "And shrill!"


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The Silent House - Agnes Lee

Two Poems - Edmund Kemper Broadus

Santa Barbara Beach - Ridgely Torrence

Maternity - Alice Meynell

Three Poems - Fannie Stearns Davis

Four Poems - Samuel McCoy

"The Hill Flowers" - Alfred Noyes

Editorial Comment

The Servian Epic—Imagisme—A Few Don'ts by an Imagiste


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 which had really nothing at all of system in them; and theories were hastily laid down which were untenable on the commonest principles of science We have seen flutes sent forth with flaming titles and explanations based on acoustical theories and all sorts of scientific nostrums which were to astonish the orchestras of Europe, and we look round now in vain to see a single trace of their existence Any experimentalist, should he invent or alter but a single key, calls such invention a theory or system, and he attempts to show that the acoustical properties of the flute demand this key or this alteration."

The first of this "noble army of patentees" was Coche, who made one really valuable additionnamely, the hole and key for the C′′♯ D′′♯ shakewhich is now put on all good flutes. Most of his modifications are of no practical value and have never become general. He adopted an excavation in the head-joint where it rests against the lower lip of the player, a device already suggested by Ribcock (c. 1782) and used by both Böhm and Gordon. It is still occasionally met with. Buffet fitted the keys with needle springs of steel wire (c. 1837), possibly at Coche's suggestion. These have since been universally employed on Böhm flutes. Strange to say, Böhm at first objected to them and would not use them, preferring the old flat brass springs. The needle springs were first used in England by Cornelius Ward in 1842. Ward was not satisfied with Böhm's flute. Accordingly in substitution for this "bungling compromise


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 between tone, tune, and the ordinary dimensions of the human hand," Cornelius brought out a flute of his own, which was intended to remedy all Böhm's defects. Most of Ward's changes were adapted from earlier flutes; they are of an extremely minute and technical nature, aiming at an open-keyed system, and though they attracted a good deal of attention at the time, effected no real permanent improvement. One peculiarity of Ward's flute was that the two low C keys were closed by the left hand thumb by means of long traction levers; this poor thumb had to work no less than five keys.

Dorus in 1838 invented a new closed key for G♯, to render the fingering of the Böhm more like that of the old eight-keyed flute. It was adopted by several leading French players, and is still sometimes used, although better forms of closed G♯ keys have since been devised. Many unsuccessful attempts were made by William Card and others to adapt the old, or so-called natural, fingering to the new system. The most notable of these dabblers was Abel Siccama, a very moderate amateur flautist, who patented quite a variety of flutes: the first in 1842. One had but a single key (C♮), and had an open hole for the G for the right hand thumb. Another, called The Diatonic Flute (it was really enharmonic), patented in 1847, though of no real value, was adopted by Richardson, and also by Pratten for a time. Siccama claimed that this instrument equalled the violin in correctness of tune, and that


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 certain difficult keys were rendered easier; also that it facilitated the playing of chords and arpeggios with neatness. But by his changes Siccama spoiled the third octave, and his flutesthough still to be met with


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RV 84 (BUDDENBROOKS) —Therese Weichbrodt had given herself the nickname of Sesemi, and she still kept it, even letting the best and most favoured of the day- as well as of the boarding-pupils use it. “Call me Sesemi, child,” she said on the first day to Tony Buddenbrook, kissing her briefly, with a sound as of a small explosion, on the forehead. “I like it.” Her elder sister, however, Madame Kethelsen, was called Nelly.

Madame Kethelsen was about forty-eight years old. She had been left penniless when her husband died, and now lived in a little upstairs bedroom in her sister’s house. She dressed like Sesemi, but by contrast was very tall. She wore woollen wristlets on her thin wrists. She was not a mistress, and knew nothing of discipline. A sort of inoffensive and placid cheerfulness was all her being. When one of the pupils played a prank, she would laugh so heartily that she nearly cried, and then Sesemi would rap on the table and call out “Nelly!” very sharply—it sounded like “Nally”—and Madame Kethelsen would shrink into herself and be mute.

Madame Kethelsen obeyed her younger sister, who scolded her as if she were a child. Sesemi, in fact, despised her warmly. Therese Weichbrodt was a well-read, almost a literary woman. She struggled endlessly to keep her childhood faith, her religious assurance that somewhere in the beyond she was to be recompensed for the hard, dull present. But Madame Kethelsen, innocent, uninstructed, was all simplicity of nature. “Dear, good Nelly, what a child she is! She never doubts or struggles, she is always happy.” In such remarks there was always as much contempt as envy. Contempt was a weakness of Sesemi’s—perhaps a pardonable one.

The small red-brick suburban house was surrounded by a neatly kept garden. Its lofty ground floor was entirely taken up by schoolrooms and dining-room; the bedrooms were in the upper story and the attic. Miss Weichbrodt did not have a large number of pupils. As boarders she received only older girls, while the day-school consisted of but three classes, the lowest ones. Sesemi took care to have only the daugh-

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 occasionallyobtained no permanent hold (Page 68, Fig. 1). Briccialdi also tried to adapt the old fingering to the new flute. He is credited sometimes with having invented a system of closing the F♯ hole by two rings or keys for the F♮ and E♮ holes, which has been largely adopted, but it is more probable that it was invented by Carte or Forde. However, Briccialdi undoubtedly did invent the B♭ lever now used on Böhm flutes (Fig. 13). This contrivance dates from 1849, and is a decided improvement. It was first made, under Briccialdi's direction, by Rudall & Rose (now Rudall, Carte, & Co), whose flutes rapidly attained a great reputation. Mr. Richard Carte, who joined the firm in 1850, was for many years well known as a flautist, possessing great facility of execution. In early life he was a personal friend of Spohr, and in 1842 was a member of Julliens' band. The improvements in the flute made from time to time by this firm are both numerous and important. In 1843 they took up Böhm's model of 1832, and brought over Grevé, one of Böhm's best workmen, to instruct their staff. When Böhm's model of 1847 appeared they at once adopted it (Page 68, Fig. 2). In 1851 Carte brought out a new patent flute, in which the open keys and equidistant holes of Böhm were retained, combined with as much as possible of the old eight-keyed fingering, but a greater


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 facility of rapid execution was obtained, chiefly by means of an open D hole for the second and third octaves, and less work thrown upon the thumb and little finger of the left hand, which are always weak. In 1867 Carte brought out another flute known as "The 1867 Patent Carte and Böhm Combined Flute" (Page 68, Fig. 3), which unites the advantages of the original Böhm with those of Carte's 1851 flute. The principal changes are in the key mechanism of the F♮ F♯ and B♮ B♭. It also affords a great variety of fingerings for each note.

Clinton in 1848 patented some quite useless modifications, reverting more or less to the old system of closed keys, and contradicting much of what he had said two years previously. In 1855 he published a pamphlet about a new flute which he termed "The Equisonant Flute," retaining much of the old system of fingering, and having different diameters of the bore for the different notes to imitate the human larynx, a curious and valueless notion. A partisan of the Böhm thereupon asked if "equisonant" meant "equally bad all over," on which Mr. Rockstro remarks that unfortunately it was unequally bad! He next (1862) brought out a flute with cylinder body and equally graduated holes, getting smaller as they approached the mouth-hole. This flute, which gained a gold medal in the exhibition of 1862, was strongly advocated by Skeffington. It had not, however, even the merit of originality, as Böhm had tried graduating the holes before 1851, but had abandoned the idea. In 1863


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RV 85 (BUDDENBROOKS) ters of irreproachably refined families in her house. Tony Buddenbrook, as we have seen, she welcomed most tenderly. She even made “bishop” for supper—a sort of sweet red punch to be taken cold, in the making of which she was a past mistress. “A little more beeshop,” she urged with a hearty nod. It sounded so tempting; nobody could resist!

Fraulein Weichbrodt sat on two sofa-cushions at the top of the table and presided over the meal with tact and discretion. She held her stunted figure stiffly erect, tapped vigilantly on the table, cried “Nally” or “Babby,” and subdued Mile. Popinet with a glance whenever the latter seemed about to take unto herself all the cold veal jelly. Tony had been allotted a place between two other boarders, Armgard von Schilling, the strapping blond daughter of a Mecklenburg landowner, and Gerda Arnoldsen, whose home was in Amsterdam—an unusual, elegant figure, with dark red hair, brown eyescl ose together, and a lovely, pale, haughty face. Opposite her sat a chattering French girl who looked like a negress, with huge gold earrings. The lean English Miss Brown, with her sourish smile, sat at the bottom of the table. She was a boarder too.

It was not hard, with the help of Sesemi’s bishop, to get acquainted. Mile. Popinet had had nightmares again last night—ah, quel horreur! She usually screamed “Help, thieves; help, thieves!” until everybody jumped out of bed. Next, it appeared that Gerda Arnoldsen did not take piano like the rest of them, but the violin, and that Papa—her Mother was dead—had promised her a real Stradivarius. Tony was not musical—hardly any of the Buddenbrooks and none of the Krögers were. She could not even recognize the chorals they played at St. Mary’s.—Oh, the organ in the new Church at Amsterdam had a vox humana—a human voice—that was just wonderful. Armgard von Schilling talked about the cows at home.

It was Armgard who from the earliest moment had made a great impression on Tony. She was the first person from a

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RV 86 (BUDDENBROOKS) noble family whom Tony had ever known. What luck, to be called von Schilling! Her own parents had the most beautiful old house in the town, and her grandparents belonged to the best families; still, they were called plain Buddenbrook and Kröger—which was a pity, to be sure. The granddaughter of the proud Lebrecht Kröger glowed with reverence for Armgard’s noble birth. Privately, she sometimes thought that the splendid “von” went with her better than it did with Armgard; for Armgard did not appreciate her good luck, dear, no! She had a thick pigtail, good-natured blue eyes, and a broad Mecklenburg accent, and went about thinking just nothing at all on the subject. She made absolutely no pretentions to being aristocratic; in fact, she did not know what it was. But the word “aristocratic” stuck in Tony’s small head; and she emphatically applied it to Gerda Arnoldsen.

Gerda was rather exclusive, and had something foreign and queer about her. She liked to do up her splendid red hair in striking ways, despite Sesemi’s protests. Some of the girls thought it was “silly” of her to play the violin instead of the piano—and, be it known, “silly” was a term of very severe condemnation. Still, the girls mostly agreed with Tony that Gerda was aristocratic—in her figure, well-developed for her years; in her ways, her small possessions, everything. There was the ivory toilet set from Paris, for instance; that Tony could appreciate, for her own parents and grandparents also had treasures which had been brought from Paris.

The three girls soon made friends. They were in the same class and slept together in the same large room at the top of the house. What delightful, cosy times they had going to bed! They gossiped while they undressed—in undertones, however, for it was ten o’clock and next door Mile. Popinet had gone to bed to dream of burglars. Eva Ewers slept with her. Eva was a little Hamburger, whose father, an amateur painter and collector, had settled in Munich.

The striped brown blinds were down, the low, red-shaded

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T was worth a kingdom to be at sea again. It was a relief to drop all anxiety whatsoever—all questions as to where we should go; how long we should stay; whether it were worth while to go or not; all anxieties about the condition of the horses; all such questions as “Shall we ever get to water?” “Shall we ever lunch?” “Ferguson, how many more million miles have we got to creep under this awful sun before we camp?” It was a relief to cast all these torturing little anxieties far away—ropes of steel they were, and every one with a separate and distinct strain on it—and feel the temporary contentment that is born of the banishment of all care and responsibility. We did not look at the compass: we did not care, now, where the ship went to, so that she went out of sight of land as quickly as possible. When I travel again, I wish to go in a pleasure ship. No amount of money could have purchased for us, in a strange vessel and among unfamiliar faces, the perfect satisfaction and the sense of being at home again which we experienced when we stepped on board the “Quaker City,”—our own ship—after this wearisome pilgrimage. It is a something we have felt always when we returned to her, and a something we had no desire to sell.

We took off our blue woollen shirts, our spurs, and heavy boots, our sanguinary revolvers and our buckskin-seated pantaloons, and got shaved and came out in Christian costume once more. All but Jack, who changed all other articles of his dress, but clung to his traveling pantaloons. They still preserved their ample buckskin seat intact; and so his short pea-jacket and his long, thin legs assisted to make him a pictu-


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 Clinton patented yet another flute, to a great extent retaining the old fingering and closed holes.

Pratten tried various experiments, and about the year 1856 brought out his "Perfected Flute." He objected to take up the Böhm, and endeavoured to adapt the old fingering to the cylinder flute with large holes, with the result that his flute had in the end seventeen keys in place of the original eight! It need hardly be added that this instrument did not justify its name, and is now completely relegated to oblivion.

Two other modifications of the Böhm which are still largely used deserve notice. R. S. Rockstro, after many attempts, in 1864 produced the model known by his name. The principal features are the full adoption of the open-keyed system, the uniform diameter of the finger-holes, their increased size, and an extra F♯ key. Many of the keys are perforated. He subsequently placed a tiny tube at right angles at the C′′♯ hole to improve the tone. Mr. J. Radcliff also devised a new modelthe nearest approach to the old eight-keyed fingering. Its principal features are that it has not the open D, and that it has a closed G♯ also the B♭ key is closed by the first finger of the right hand by a separate lever. Radcliff advocates a mouth-hole which is almost square, such as Drouet used.

Mr. W. L. Barrett, Mr. Collard, Mr. Colonieu, and others have all brought out flutes with minute changes of fingering, etc. All these are very unimportant,


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RV 87 (BUDDENBROOKS) lamp burned on the table, there was a faint smell of violets and fresh wash, and a delicious atmosphere of laziness and dreams.

“Heavens,” said Armgard, half undressed, sitting on her bed, “how Dr. Newmann can talk! He comes into the class and stands by the table and tells about Racine—”

He has a lovely high forehead,” remarked Gerda, standing before the mirror between the windows and combing her hair by the light of two candles.

“Oh, yes, hasn’t he?” Armgard said eagerly.

“And you are taking the course just on his account, Armgard; you gaze at him all the time with your blue eyes, as if—”

“Are you in love with him?” asked Tony. “I can’t undo my shoe-lace; please, Gerda. Thanks. Why don’t you marry him? He is a good match—he will get to be a High School Professor.”

“I think you are both horrid. I’m not in love with him, and I would not marry a teacher, anyhow. I shall marry a country gentleman.”

“A nobleman?” Tony dropped her stocking and looked thoughtfully into Armgard’s face.

“I don’t know, yet. But he must have a large estate. Oh, girls, I just love that sort of thing! I shall get up at five o’clock every morning, and attend to everything. . . .” She pulled up the bed-covers and stared dreamily at the ceiling.

“Five hundred cows are before your mind’s eye,” said Gerda, looking at her in the mirror.

Tony was not ready yet; but she let her head fall on the pillow, tucked her hands behind her neck, and gazed dreamily at the ceiling in her turn.

“Of course,” she said, “I shall marry a business man. He must have a lot of money, so we can furnish elegantly. I owe that to my family and the firm,” she added earnestly. “Yes, you’ll see, that’s what I shall do.”

Gerda had finished her hair for the night and was brushing

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RV 88 (BUDDENBROOKS) her big white teeth, using the ivory-backed hand-mirror to see them better.

“I shall probably not marry at all,” she said, speaking with some difficulty on account of the tooth-powder. I don’t see why I should. I am not anxious. I’ll go back to Amsterdam and play duets with Daddy and afterwards live with my married sister.”

“What a pity,” Tony said briskly. “What a pity! You ought to marry here and stay here for always. Listen: you could marry one of my brothers—”

“The one with the big nose?” asked Gerda, and gave a dainty little yawn, holding the hand-mirror before her face.

“Or the other; it doesn’t matter. You could furnish beautifully. Jacobs could do it—the upholsterer in Fish Street. He has lovely taste. I’d come to see you every day—”

But then there came the voice of Mile. Popinet. It said: “Oh, mademoiselles! Please go to bed. It is too late to get married any more this evening!”

Sundays and holidays Tony spent in Meng Street or outside the town with her grandparents. How lovely, when it was fine on Easter Sunday, hunting for eggs and marzipan hares in the enormous Kröger garden! Then there were the summer holidays at the seashore; they lived in the Kurhouse, ate at the table-d’hôte, bathed, and went donkey-riding. Some seasons when the Consul had business, there were long journeys. But Christmases were best of all. There were three present-givings: at home, at the grandparents’, and at Sesemi’s, where bishop flowed in streams. The one at home was the grandest, for the Consul believed in keeping the holy feast with pomp and ceremony. They gathered in the landscape-room with due solemnity. The servants and the crowd of poor people thronged into the pillared hall, where the Consul went about shaking their purple hands. Then outside rose the voices of the choir-boys from St. Mary’s in a quartette, and one’s heart heat loudly with awe and expectation. The smell of the Christmas tree was already coming through the crack

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RV 89 (BUDDENBROOKS) in the great white folding doors; and the Frau Consul took the old family Bible with the funny big letters, and slowly read aloud the Christmas chapter; and after the choir-boys had sung another carol, everybody joined in “O Tannenbaum” and went in solemn procession through the hall into the great salon, hung with tapestries that had statuary woven into them. There the tree rose to the ceiling, decorated with white lilies, twinkling and sparkling and pouring out light and fragrance; and the table with the presents on it stretched from the windows to the door. Outside, the Italians with the barrel-organ were making music in the frozen, snowy streets, and a great hubbub came over from the Christmas market in Market Square. All the children except little Clara stopped up to late supper in the salon, and there were mountains of carp and stuffed turkey.

In these years Tony Buddenbrook visited two Mecklenburg estates. She stopped for two weeks one summer with her friend Armgard, on Herr von Schilling’s property, which lay on the coast across the bay from Travemünde. And another time she went with Cousin Tilda to a place where Bernard Buddenbrook was inspector. This estate was called “Thankless,” because it did not bring in a penny’s income; but for a summer holiday it was not to be despised.

Thus the years went on. It was, take it all in all, a happy youth for Tony.

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 and have not been generally adopted. The climax of tinkering was reached by Mr. James Mathews, a Birmingham amateur, whose flute had no less than twenty-eight keys! The tube was of gold, the keys of silver, and the head-joint of ivory, with a perfectly square mouth-hole. In fact, the whole instrument was "be-divelled," to use the expression of one who saw it. Mr. Mathews was a very fine player and an enthusiast. He founded the Birmingham Flue Trio and Quartett Society in 1856, of which Joseph Richardson was president till his death in 1862. The society possesses a magnificent library of flute music, including a Quartett specially written for it by Antonio Minasi.

After all, with the possible exception of Mr. Carte's 1867 Patent Flute, Böhm's own model is still the best:


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a June afternoon, not long after five o’clock, the family were sitting before the “portal” in the garden, where they had drunk coffee. They had pulled the rustic furniture outside, for it was too close in the white-washed garden house, with its tall mirror decorated with painted birds and its varnished folding doors, which were really not folding doors at all and had only painted latches.

The Consul, his wife, Tony, Tom, and Clothilde sat in a half-circle around the table, which was laid with its usual shining service. Christian, sitting a little to one side, conned the second oration of Cicero against Catiline. He looked unhappy. The Consul smoked his cigar and read the Advertiser. His wife had let her embroidery fall into her lap and sat smiling at little Clara; the child, with Ida Jungmann, was looking for violets in the grass-plot. Tony, her head propped on both hands, was deep in Hoffman’s “Serapion Brethren,” while Tom tickled her in the back of the neck with a grassblade, an attention which she very wisely ignored. And Clothilde, looking thin and old-maidish in her flowered cotton frock, was reading a story called “Blind, Deaf, Dumb, and Still Happy.” As she read, she scraped up the biscuit-crumbs carefully with all five fingers from the cloth and ate them.

A few white clouds stood motionless in the slowly paling sky. The small town garden, with its carefully laid-out paths and beds, looked gay and tidy in the afternoon sun. The scent of the mignonette borders floated up now and then.

“Well, Tom,” said the Consul expansively, and took the cigar out of his mouth, “we are arranging that rye sale I told you about, with van Henkdom and Company.” RV 93 (93)


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HERE is an interesting and true passage in the letters of Matthew Arnold which spirited young fellows encounter with a chill. It is this: "The aimless and unsettled, but also open and liberal, state of our youth we must perhaps all leave and take refuge in our morality and character; but with most of us it is a melancholy passage from which we emerge shorn of so many beams that we are almost tempted to quarrel with the law of nature which imposes it on us."

The revolt of youth, the cries of which are now so audible in our literature, is an

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attempt to resist as long as possible the imposition of the traditional morality and the traditional character upon the fluent welter of youth's desires and possibilities. The revolt derives its bright enthusiasm from the belief of the insurgents that, as the yoke of custom is something wilfully imposed by tyrannical elders, it may, by a superior wilfulness of the young, be thrown off. The wise young Arnold dashes cold water on that belief by referring to the imposing power as a "law of nature."

What is that law of nature to which, in the end, the rebel necks must bow? What power is it that drives young spirits, trailing clouds of glory, into the austere refuge of morality and character? Suppose, to begin with, we call it the law of self-preservation, individual and racial. That has a formidable sound. And, indeed, it is a formidable power. When we feel its wolfish breath at our back, we lighten our impedimenta; we stiffen our sinews; we lengthen our stride; we fix our gaze on the patch of

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light beyond the woods; and we become careless of Spring Beauties and wayside flowers.

Some of us, to be sure, seek for a time, to ignore or evade it. An occasional college boy, stimulated to believe that he is the maker of his own destiny, listens with wonder and eager curiosity to a lecturer commending the "cultural ideal" of Goethe—the seductive notion of the continuous growth and free unfolding of a many-sided personality, developed at all points. He may even, through his undergraduate years, revel a little in his own versatility and caress his multifarious unformed tastes and talents. By bobbing our hair and keeping our faces clean shaven, and by reading the novels of undergraduate authors and taking counsel of their tailors, a few of us manage to extend the plastic age and the experimental and uncertain appearance and opinions of adolescence well into our third decade.

But to pass for a youth beyond that point, requires far more money, leisure, and free-

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dom from the cares of this world than are ordinarily to be had upon the economic tableland of democracy. In a society where the most that the average person can expect is to start without a handicap, the occupations of the first four decades are essentially predetermined. Our average man has his work cut out for him if he keeps abreast of normal expectations; and to keep abreast, he is impelled by the strongest instincts in him.

HERE is nothing forbidding or externally formidable in the deputy powers that take him captive. Quite the contrary. He sees the invitation and the promise of life in a pair of grey eyes and white hands, and he runs to meet them, and while he is explaining in a moment of youthful intoxication, how sweet earth would be if Maytime would last forever and gipsying were in fashion, he is bound hand and foot, and delivered to a power which effectively terminates his roving in the Romany Rye. The law of self-preservation has him in thrall. Or to put the matter in plain terms, he must educate himself and pay for his

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education; he must find a profession; he must marry and pay for his wife; he must start a family and pay for his family; he must buy a lot and build a house; he must pay for his life insurance and start a fund for his old age; he must begin the education of his children. In this homespun garb the awful "law of nature" enforces itself before he knows what has got hold of him. He enters upon these tasks with the unreflective gusto of youth—a fluent, unformed, unchanneled energy. All the "boys" are doing likewise. All the prizes are attached to doing likewise. As the heat of the contest heightens, he strips himself one by one of the recreations and accomplishments through which in his vernal days the mounting diffusive sap of his youth burst briefly into flower: dancing, acting, singing, mandolin-playing, drawing, verse-writing, tramping, shooting, camping, tennis, and the rest. He pulls himself together. He concentrates. He specializes. "Three meals a day," he says, "my work, my pipe, and no interruptions!" He is nothing but a driving energy. Yet for

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a long time he does not cease to think of himself as one of the "young fellows." The very intensity and singleness of his effort is due, in fact, to a youthful pride and doggedness developed under a sense that the Old Men are watching the youngster critically.

UT by and by comes a season when a lot of things, unimpressive singly, happen together and become impressive. His wife gaily discovers three grey hairs, one above his left ear, two above his right. "Yes," says his daughter, kissing a spot on the back of his head, "but Dad will never be grey!" At about the same time he discovers that he needs a stronger pair of glasses. His dentist, who has hitherto passed him easily through the semi-annual inspection, now suggests an extensive plan of bridge construction. He still feels quite fit; but on the way home he mutters to himself with a playful grimness: "Aha! Baldness, Blindness, and Toothlessness are scouting out a position before

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the main army of Death." Then he notices with a realizing eye how tall his sons are growing, and how independent, and how—well, he would call it saucy, if they were not so tall. He has to contradict them firmly because—well, they have no business at their age to know so much more about the point than their father. But he fails to feel impressive in the assertion of his authority, for even when they seem to assent, he has a subtle uneasy sense that they are merely humoring him, with an indulgent filial smile in their sleeves. Presently he overhears one of them referring to him as the Old Man.

"The Old Man! Good Heavens!" he exclaims, "How old am I? Forty?—Forty is nothing, nowadays. President Eliot went bicycling before breakfast at seventy-five. Lounsbury played the New England tennis champion at seventy-five. At forty, a man is a mere fledgling."

So he soothes and flatters himself. But, in this season of disillusion, another fact gradually establishes itself in his awakened con-

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sciousness—a fact full of pathos and mystery: he discovers that the unchallengeably young people really prefer their own society to his, while he himself prefers their society to that of the men of forty. There is nothing like that to plunge a sword into a man's viscera and twist it about in the wound. He tries to conceal his hurt. He rallies his gaiety and makes a desperate effort to retrace his steps and rejoin the merry-makers who are going a-Maying. But even when he presents himself in scenes dewy with sentiment, sparkling with young desires, and rich with dreams, somehow he does not seem to "enter in." He feels—he confides it soberly and in the utmost confidence to his own heart—he feels like Merrick's hero in quest of his youth, who fell asleep, and snored softly—didn't he?—while his old sweetheart bent over him, bitterly, in the trysting hour.

He feels "the fierce necessity to feel" but lacks the power. What is the trouble with him? He knows. He knows. He faces a tragedy. It isn't that he is forty. Other men have

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been forty. 'Tis common, Madam! His tragedy is that he possesses a character. No: his character possesses him. He is imprisoned in his morality and his character. He overhears the respectful rumor of his contemporaries: "Yes, Brown has achieved a character. We can count on Brown. We know where he stands."

HE object of this applause inwardly squirms. He squirms on the pointed truth in what they say. He himself knows where he stands: he is a man of property, he is a professional man, he is a voter and taxpayer, he is the husband of one of the caryatides of society, he is the father of four children, he is one of four men with plates who walk up the aisles of the church in frock coats on Sunday morning.

He acts from those positions. He acts only from them. His feeling is adequate to those positions. But he feels nothing more. So this is what is called "achieving a character." He has "achieved" nothing of the sort.

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This prison-house is not the edifice of his will; it was built about him by his destiny. It is nothing but his circumstances catching him in a trap. This character is a highwayman. It came up behind him, like a thief in the night. It cried, "Halt! Stick 'em up!" And there he stopped; and delivered up his youth; and went no further. And that is why men know where he stands, and can count on him.

Yes: they can count on him—and so they don't count him any longer. If he speaks in public, his friends don't come out; they know well enough what he will say. If he publishes a book, no one buys it; they have the book that he wrote ten years ago. If he is absent from a committee, no one misses his counsel: any one of the members can easily present his "views." If a subscription list is circulating, they put him down for ten dollars without consulting him: he always gives ten dollars. If his own children conceive any enterprise, tainted with novelty, scandal, or promise of vivid interest, they first conspire with their mother to placate him, knowing

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for certain that "Dad will oppose it." Yes: he can be counted on. He is no longer an incalculable force. He is an homme range. He is a character. He is fixed at forty—like a monument, like a gravestone, with one blank line waiting to mark the formal decease and burial of his body.

SN'T it true that when one begins to stop growing one begins to die? When did he begin to die? He looks backward to discover the point at which his vital force began to draw in from the branches to the trunk and gradually retire towards the earth. He looks backward thirty years—thirty-five years. There was a time, back there, very early in his life—say between his fifth and his tenth years—when every morning multiplied his budding interests, and the green young shoots of his curiosity pushed eagerly into "the blooming buzzing confusion" of the universe.

Between five and ten he was a Roosevelt for versatility—yet in that respect he

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was exactly like every normal child! There was not a dull page from table of contents to index in the whole of life's sweet scented manuscript. All arts, all sciences, all religions, all philosophies, all histories, all customs of life "intrigued" him.

He modeled in clay, he painted in water colors, he composed unrecorded melodies, he participated in the folk dancing called "London Bridge Is Falling Down"; he was an "out-of-door naturalist" and explorer of rivers, caves, and valleys; he was a collector and classifier of stamps, minerals, coins, curiosities from the Holy Land, insects, flowers, birds' eggs; he shuddered under the knife of Aztec sacrifice; he learned from the Koran that Paradise is under the shadow of the sword, he wrote to his grandfather for a copy of the Hebrew alphabet that he might study the Decalogue in God's own tongue, he dipped into "The Light of Asia", he studied idolatry in the old Chinese quarter; he was interested in Jesus; he was knocked down by experimenting with the current in a trol-

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ley wire, he manufactured gunpowder, and cannon from brass shotgun shells; he molded bullets, he tanned squirrel skins, he attempted to stuff birds, he made maps of pulped brown butcher's paper, he prepared medicines from herbs, he distilled liquor and attempted to petrify wood, he built houses and trapezes and dams and attempted to build a lake; he raised pigeons, chickens, rabbits, and snakes; he drilled for oil, he examined openings in the fruit industry, lawn mowing, pickling, floriculture, printing, and the newspaper business; but most of all his heart was set on gold mining, exploring Indian graves, and swinging a rawhide lariat from a saddle of Spanish leather while spurring a lean broncho after the mavericks scurrying through the sagebrush of a western mesa.

Suppressed desires? Not at all! He found time and means and energy for all this rich and various life by the time he was thirteen. He has squeezed all the juice from those oranges. But what has he done since? Soon

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after thirteen, a drouth descended upon the tropical exuberance of his experience. The lighter foliage of his life withered up. Education fell upon him like a blight, and the luxuriant quick blossoms of childhood were scattered. His sensuous contacts with the world diminished with amazing rapidity. He began to be concerned with words rather than with things; and things shrivelled and died and disappeared under the labels that he was taught to attach to them. His education, he perceives, operated like the old-fashioned dentistry, by killing off and extracting the nerves, so that a man in middle life should find himself with a set of dead and, theoretically, untroublesome bones in his mouth. (Only, it seems, these dead things festered.) His education was designed to make out of a piece of living matter a substantial economic block, useful for homebuilding, useful in the fundamental structure of society. He had been taken, so to speak, out of his own hands by the race, and had been thrust, half alive, into a chink of

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the wall, and on him an inscription had been carved: "Here lies a solid character. Requiescat in pace."

T JUST about this point one may predict with considerable assurance either that nothing at all will happen, or that something like a miracle will happen. Either Brown will quietly resign himself to being Brown for the rest of his days; or Brown will become that most dangerous type of rebel, a middle-aged rebel, and attempt to become something new and strange.

Let us assume first that at forty there is little rebellion left in this solid character. After a brief period of wistfulness, he surrenders to the indolence which men flatter with the name of destiny. He settles firmly down at the point of view to which his circumstances have driven him. In that case, there is a fair likelihood that in his leisure hours he will become a tedious utilitarian critic of his own upbringing. He will complain of the liberal education which unsettles youth and fills it with insatiable hungers by attempting to develop a general human personality instead of a sharp vocational instrument. He will turn around upon his Alma Mater and condemn her harshly for not having cut away, at an earlier age, all the young unprofitable shoots of his general human curiosity. He may declare that the fault of his education was its failure to make him an even keener, harder, sharper vocational instrument than he is.

"What good," he will say, "have history and literature and philosophy ever done to me? You teachers pumped me full of culture. You filled me up with stuff about the Middle Ages and the Renaissance and the Reformation and the Puritan Revolution. You wasted my youth in talk about the real and the ideal and the good and the beautiful. You lured me into listening to symphonies and looking at pictures and vibrating to the pity and terror of tragic drama. You peopled the greenwood of my imagination with poetic figures of knights and ladies on great adventures and romantic quests. And then I married a fairly good cook and you sent me into the world to serve as a chemist in a dye works or to write advertising for toothpowder and laundry soap. My education was not practical. It didn't prepare me for life. It was no good. I have no use for it."

To this complaint, it should be remarked in passing, there is a retort which all "liberal" educators should learn to make. It runs something like this: "You say that your education is 'no good.' We reply, O solid businesslike character, that your life is 'no good.' Your life is not good because you built it too small to hold the best of your possessions. The trouble with you is that you wasted the wealth that we gave you; you let it rust and mildew in cellar and attic. You lacked ingenuity to use your capital. You have not learned how to employ your culture in your life. You have made no outlets for your education. Don't blame us if you can't draw Niagara through a brass faucet into the kitchen sink. As occasion serves, we shall continue to 'pump' culture into you. Perhaps bye and bye you will burst. We rather hope that you will. Then possibly something more exhilarating than a solid businesslike character can be made of the ruins and fragments of you. Perhaps a personality can be made of the pieces. At any rate there will be no great loss if you burst. On the whole, go ahead and burst. You really aren't worth saving."

But now let us assume the more enlivening of the possibilities: let us assume that a miracle happens. As Brown looks dismally out from the barred small window of his character upon his life, and sees that it is finished, suddenly his past breaks away from him, as Sicily broke away from Italy, and a gulf yawns between. There is evidence that this thing does happen. His past is no longer his; it has become a part of human history. It has become a dramatic spectacle; sitting in the box of his character he regards it as it were across footlights, with spectatorial detachment. He can re-examine it now without shame or vanity or repentance. It interests him no longer as conduct waiting for the Judgment Day but as food for intellectual and aesthetic curiosity. He now finds a use for his culture in understanding, not judging, the whole of the human spectacle. He wheels a speculative eye upon his coevals—those dreary "substantial characters" who now for so many years have been giving one another, as Thoreau complained, the same old bite of the same musty old cheese that they are. They, too, have become dramatic spectacles, each one with its own individual savour! And his wife and the four children? The moment that he stops worrying about that abstract line which is the shortest distance between two points, he perceives at last the full colour and fragrance and taste of his relation to them.

What does all this mean? It means that at forty, when a man seems hermetically enclosed in his character, an angel may just possibly unbar the door, and, leaving his possessive, aggressive body sleeping there, let his spirit out for the recognition and appreciation of a new life. So long as he wished to possess and direct the world, the world erected barriers against him, and progressively shut him in. As soon as he exacts nothing of it, it gives him all—all its qualities for his discrimination and delectation. There is no way to return to his youth by retracing the caterpillar progress of the senses or by the renovation of cells that have become clogged with the hard deposit of years. But all those old interests which he had thought dead are now reborn with wings. He can return to his past, he can flit into his future, with the swift flight of a butterfly. While he seems to sleep in the barred prison-house of his character, and his old sweetheart weeps over the baldheaded, roundwaisted man of property gently snoring there, he perchance has discovered that she can't be met at the old trysting place any more, and has pushed on up the highroad to the detour of pure poetic contemplation where all her fair qualities, her joy and blitheness and beauty, are recollected in tranquillity. Out of the death of the possessive passion, a rebirth of the mind and imagination!

If this miracle has happened, he feels, at forty, the possibility not merely of a new life but of a new kind of life opening before him. He sees the necessity of revising the "theory of education." At forty, instead of killing off the nerves, one should be occupied in reviving the spirits. Instead of closing old doors, one should be cutting new windows. Instead of sitting down and going to sleep at his own point of view, he should hunt for new ones, if he has to go to China or Alaska or Tierra del Fuego to find them. What a man of forty needs to do is to re-examine his metaphors. Let us try our hammer on this "solid character."

We spend our lives in a quarry of words. We immure ourselves behind a wall of images. We talk of characters; immediately the mallet and chisel are in our hands. We are sculptors, and our subjects are unhewn blocks of marble, and the form we seek is imposed from without. The chips fly. Chips of what? Is the imposition of marble qualities upon flesh and blood responsible for that grim and weary and hopeless look of the Old Man of the Mountain, which establishes itself at middle age upon faces once mobile and rosy? Has this entire theory of human sculpture a bearing upon the prevalence of ennui, rigor mortis, premature death, and petrification at forty? Is there a gleam of hope in a change of images?

"He built his house on a rock." Is that the best place for a house? Not if one cares for gardening. At forty, one is justified at least in enquiring whether what looked like a white rock was only a ribbon of foam. There is current an alternative set of images, which takes us out of the stone-quarry and the graveyard and away from the tedious refrain, Requiescat in pace.

Our lives are a bright-flowing mist of days and nights. Our blood is a swift-winding river. Our flesh is a changing flower. There is a season of buds and a season of fruit and a season of wine and perfume. And after the vintage, there are memories and dreams.

Is there no kinetic and flowing character—no form imposable upon wind and water: such form as the cloud takes in the West, such color; such shapes as life transiently rests in, rising from seed to blossom?

Come, let us make a new set of maxims, not for youths in their twenties with houses to build and children to educate, but for men of forty and upwards who are growing tired of one another and yet are not quite ready to die:

Unfold, leaf by leaf.

Become more and more intimate with life.

Ask no cold question of any joyous thing.

Go to all living things gently, listening for the wonder of the breath and the heartbeat.

Ask all successful and happy creatures for a clue.

Study all lovely things, with docility seeking their principle of beauty.

Consider whether it is better to change and be living than to be unchanged and dead.

Eschew pedantry and make much of fine art: it possesses a secret of eternal life.

Be your residence urban or rural, there is no provincialism so narrow as that developed by the inveterate maintenance of your own point of view.

Push on into untrodden forests, up unexplored valleys, seeking new springs of refreshment, crying at the foot of every mountain ridge, "Let us see what is on the other side."

—cov

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RV 94 (BUDDENBROOKS) “What is he giving?” Tom asked with interest, ceasing to tickle Tony.

“Sixty thaler for a thousand kilo—not bad, eh?”

“That’s very good.” Tom knew this was excellent business.

“Tony, your position is not comme il faut,” remarked the Frau Consul. Whereat Tony, without raising her eyes from her book, took one elbow off the table.

“Never mind,” TonyTom [sic] said. “She can sit how she likes, she will always be Tony Buddenbrook. Tilda and she are certainly the beauties of the family.”

Clothilde was astonished almost to death. “Good gracious, Tom,” she said. It was inconceivable how she could drawl out the syllables. Tony bore the jeer in silence. It was never any use, Tom was more than a match for her. He could always get the last word and have the laugh on his side. Her nostrils dilated a little, and she shrugged her shoulders. But when the Consul’s wife began to talk of the coming dance at the house of Consul Huneus, and let fall something about new patent leather shoes, Tony took the other elbow off the table and displayed a lively interest.

“You keep talking and talking,” complained Christian fretfully, “and I’m having such a hard time. I wish I were a business man.”

“Yes, you’re always wanting something different,” said Tom. Anton came across the garden with a card on his tray. They all looked at him expectantly.

“Grünlich, Agent,” read the Consul. “He is from Hamburg—an agreeable man, and well recommended, the son of a clergyman. I have business dealings with him. There is a piece of business now.—Is it all right, Betsy, if I ask him to come out here?”

A middle-sized man, his head thrust a little forward of his body, carrying his hat and stick in one hand, came across the garden. He was some two-and-thirty years old; he wore a fuzzy greenish-yellow suit with a long-skirted coat, and grey

RV 94 (94)


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RV 95 (BUDDENBROOKS) worsted gloves. His face, beneath the sparse light hair, was rosy and smiling; but there was an undeniable wart on one side of his nose. His chin and upper lip were smooth-shaven; he wore long, drooping side-whiskers, in the English fashion, and these adornments were conspicuously golden-yellow in colour. Even at a distance, he began making obsequious gestures with his broad-brimmed grey hat, and as he drew near he took one last very long step, and arrived describing a half-circle with the upper part of his body, by this means bowing to them all at once.

“I am afraid I am disturbing the family circle,” he said in a soft voice, with the utmost delicacy of manner. “You are conversing, you are indulging in literary pursuits—I must really beg your pardon for my intrusion.”

“By no means, my dear Herr Grünlich,” said the Consul. He and his sons got up and shook hands with the stranger. “You are very welcome. I am delighted to see you outside the office and in my family circle. Herr Grünlich, Betsy—a friend of mine and a keen man of business. This is my daughter Antonie, and my niece Clothilde. Thomas you know already, and this is my second son, Christian, in High School.” Herr Grünlich responded to each name with an inclination of the body.

“I must repeat,” he said, “that I have no desire to intrude. I came on business. If the Herr Consul would be so good as to take a walk with me round the gardens—” The Consul’s wife answered: “It will give us pleasure to have you sit down with us for a little before you begin to talk business with my husband. Do sit down.”

“A thousand thanks,” said Herr Grünlich, apparently quite flattered. He sat down on the edge of the chair which Tom brought, laid his hat and stick on his knees, and settled himself, running his hand over his long beard with a little hemming and hawing, as if to say, “Well, now we’ve got past the introduction—what next?”

The Frau Consul began the conversation. “You live in

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RV 96 (BUDDENBROOKS) Hamburg?” she asked, inclining her head and letting her work fall into her lap.

“Yes, Frau Consul,” responded Herr Grünlich with a fresh bow. “At least, my house is in Hamburg, hut I am on the road a good deal. My business is very flourishing—ahem—if I may be permitted to say so.”

The Frau Consul lifted her eyebrows and made respectful motions with her mouth, as if she were saying “Ah—indeed?”

“Ceaseless activity is a condition of my being,” added he, half turning to the Consul. He coughed again as he noticed that Fräulein Antonie’s glance rested upon him. She gave him, in fact, the cold, calculating stare with which a maiden measures a strange young man—a stare which seems always on the point of passing over into actual contempt.

“We have relatives in Hamburg,” said she, in order to be saying something.

“The Duchamps,” explained the Consul. “The family of my late Mother.”

“Oh, yes,” Herr Grünlich hastened to say. “I have the honour of a slight acquaintance with the family. They are very fine people, in mind and heart. Ahem! This would be a better world if there were more families like them in it. They have religion, benevolence, and genuine piety; in short, they are my ideal of the true Christlike spirit. And in them it is united to a rare degree with a brilliant cosmopolitanism, an elegance, an aristocratic bearing, which I find most attractive, Frau Consul.”

Tony thought: “How can he know my Father and Mother so well? He is saying exactly what they like best to hear.” The Consul responded approvingly, “The combination is one that is becoming in everybody.” And the Frau Consul could not resist stretching out her hand to their guest with her sweeping gesture, palm upward, while the bracelets gave a little jingle. “You speak as though you read my inmost thoughts, dear Herr Grünlich,” she said.

Upon which, Herr Grünlich made another deep bow, settled

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610 resque object whenever he stood on the forecastle looking abroad upon the ocean over the bows. At such times his father’s last injunction suggested itself to me. He said:

“Jack, my boy, you are about to go among a brilliant company of gentlemen and ladies, who are refined and cultivated, and thoroughly accomplished in the manners and customs of good society. Listen to their conversation, study their habits of life, and learn. Be polite and obliging to all, and considerate towards every one’s opinions, failings and prejudices. Command the just respect of all your fellow-voyagers, even though you fail to win their friendly regard. And Jack—don’t you ever dare, while you live, appear in public on those decks in fair weather, in a costume unbecoming your mother’s drawing-room!”

It would have been worth any price if the father of this hopeful youth could have stepped on board some time, and seen him standing high on the fore-castle, pea-jacket, tasseled red fez, buckskin patch and all,—placidly contemplating the ocean—a rare spectacle for any body’s drawing-room.

After a pleasant voyage and a good rest, we drew near to Egypt and out of the mellowest of sunsets we saw the domes and minarets of Alexandria rise into view. As soon as the anchor was down, Jack and I got a boat and went ashore. It was night by this time, and the other passengers were content to remain at home


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RV 97 (BUDDENBROOKS) himself again, stroked his beard, and coughed as if to say: “Well, let us get on.”

The Frau Consul mentioned the disastrous fire which had swept Hamburg in May of the year 1842. “Yes, indeed,” said Herr Grünlich, “truly a fearful misfortune. A distressing visitation. The loss amounted to one hundred and thirty-five millions, at a rough estimate. I am grateful to Providence that I came off without any loss whatever. The fire raged chiefly in the parishes of St. Peter and St. Nicholas.—What a charming garden!” he interrupted himself, taking the cigar which the Consul offered. “It is so large for a town garden, and the beds of colour are magnificent. I confess my weakness for flowers, and for nature in general. Those climbing roses over there trim up the garden uncommonly well.” He went on, praising the refinement of the location, praising the town itself, praising the Consul’s cigar. He had a pleasant word for each member of the circle.

“May I venture to inquire what you are reading, Fräulein Antonie?” he said smiling.

Tony drew her brows together sharply at this, for some reason, and answered without looking at him, “Hoffmann’s ‘Serapion Brethren.’ ”

“Really! He is a wonderful writer, is he not? Ah, pardon me—I forget the name of your younger son, Frau Consul?”

“Christian.”

“A beautiful name. If I may so express myself”—here he turned again to the Consul—“I like best the names which show that the bearer is a Christian. The name of Johann, I know, is hereditary in your family—a name which always recalls the beloved disciple. My own name—if I may be permitted to mention it,” he continued, waxing eloquent, is that of most of my forefathers—Bendix. It can only be regarded as a shortened form of Benedict. And you, Herr Buddenbrook, are reading—? ah, Cicero. The works of this great Roman orator make pretty difficult reading, eh? ‘Quo-

RV 97 (97)


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RV 98 (BUDDENBROOKS) usque tandem—Catalina’. . . ahem. Oh, I have not forgotten quite all my Latin.”

“I disagree with my late Father on this point,” the Consul said. “I have always objected to the perpetual occupation of young heads with Greek and Latin. When there are so many other important subjects, necessary as a preparation for the practical affairs of life—”

“You take the words out of my mouth,” Herr Grünlich hastened to say. “It is hard reading, and not by any means always unexceptionable—I forgot to mention that point. Everything else aside, I can recall passages that were positively offensive—”

There came a pause, and Tony thought “Now it’s my turn.” Herr Grünlich had turned his gaze upon her. And, sure enough: he suddenly started in his chair, made a spasmodic but always highly elegant gesture toward the Frau Consul, and whispered ardently, “Pray look, Frau Consul, I beg of you.—Fräulein, I implore you,” he interrupted himself aloud, just as if Tony could not hear the rest of what he said, to keep in that same position for just a moment. Do you see,” he began whispering again, “how the sunshine is playing in your daughter’s hair? Never,” he said solemnly, as if transported, speaking to nobody in particular, “have I seen more beautiful hair.” It was as if he were addressing his remarks to God or to his own soul.

The Consul’s wife smiled, well pleased. The Consul said, “Don’t be putting notions into the girl’s head.” And again Tony drew her brows together without speaking. After a short pause, Herr Grünlich got up. “But I won’t disturb you any longer now—no, Frau Consul, I refuse to disturb you any longer,” he repeated. “I only came on business, but I could not resist—indeed, who could resist you? Now duty calls. May I ask the Consul—”

“I hope I do not need to assure you that it would give us pleasure if you would let us put you up while you are here,” said the Frau Consul. Herr Grünlich appeared for the

RV 98 (98)


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RV 99 (BUDDENBROOKS) moment struck dumb with gratitude. “From my soul I am grateful, Frau Consul,” he said, and his look was indeed eloquent with emotion. “But I must not abuse your kindness. I have a couple of rooms at the City of Hamburg—”

“A couple of rooms,” thought the Frau Consul—which was just what Herr Grünlich meant her to think.

“And, in any case,” he said, as she offered her hand cordially, “I hope we have not seen each other for the last time.” He kissed her hand, waited a moment for Antonie to extend hers—which she did not do—described another half-circle with his upper torso, made a long step backward and another bow, threw back his head and put his hat on with a flourish, then walked away in company with the Consul.

“A pleasant man,” the Father said later, when he came back and took his place again.

“I think he’s silly,” Tony permitted herself to remark with some emphasis.

“Tony! Heavens and earth, what an idea!” said the Consul’s wife, displeased. “Such a Christian young man!”

“So well brought up, and so cosmopolitan,” went on the Consul. “You don’t know what you are talking about.” He and his wife had a way of taking each other’s side like this, out of sheer politeness. It made them the more likely to agree.

Christian wrinkled up his long nose and said, “He was so important. ‘You are conversing’—when we weren’t at all. And the roses over there ‘trim things up uncommonly.’ He acted some of the time as if he were talking to himself. ‘I am disturbing you’—‘I beg pardon’—I have never seen more beautiful hair.’ ” Christian mocked Herr Grünlich so cleverly that they all had to laugh, even the Consul.

“Yes, he gave himself too many airs,” Tony went on. “He talked the whole time about himself—his business is good, and he is fond of nature, and he likes such-and-such names, and his name is Bendix—what is all that to us, I‘d like to know? Everything he said was just to spread himself. Her

RV 99 (99)


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RV 100 (BUDDENBROOKS) voice was growing louder all the time with vexation. “He said all the very things you like to hear, Mamma and Papa, and he said them just to make a fine impression on you both.”

“That is no reproach, Tony,” the Consul said sternly. “Everybody puts his best foot foremost before strangers. We all take care to say what will be pleasant to hear. That is a commonplace.”

“I think he is a good man,” Clothilde pronounced with drawling serenity—she was the only person in the circle about whom Herr Grünlich had not troubled himself at all. Thomas refrained from giving an opinion.

“Enough,” concluded the Consul. “He is a capable, cultured, and energetic Christian man, and you, Tony, should try to bridle your tongue—a great girl of eighteen or nineteen years old, like you! And after he was so polite and gallant to you, too. We are all weak creatures; and you, let me say, are one of the last to have a right to throw stones. Tom, we’ll get to work.”

Pert little Tony muttered to herself “A golden goat’s beard!” and scowled as before.

RV 100 (100)


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Rh and visit ancient Egypt after breakfast. It was the way they did at Constantinople. They took a lively interest in new countries, but their school-boy impatience had worn off, and they had learned that it was wisdom to take things easy and go along comfortably—these old countries do not go away in the night; they stay till after breakfast.

When we reached the pier we found an army of Egyptian boys with donkeys no larger than themselves, waiting for passengers—for donkeys are the omnibuses of Egypt. We preferred to walk, but we could not have our own way. The boys crowded about us, clamored around us, and slewed their donkeys exactly across our path, no matter which way we turned. They were good-natured rascals, and so were the donkeys. We mounted, and the boys ran behind us and kept the donkeys in a furious gallop, as is the fashion at Damascus. I believe I would rather ride a donkey than any beast in the world. He goes briskly, he puts on no airs, he is docile, though


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612 opinionated. Satan himself could not scare him, and he is convenient—very convenient. When you are tired riding you can rest your feet on the ground and let him gallop from under you.

We found the hotel and secured rooms, and were happy to know that the Prince of Wales had stopped there once. They had it every where on signs. No other princes had stopped there since, till Jack and I came. We went abroad through the town, then, and found it a city of huge commercial buildings, and broad, handsome streets brilliant with gas-light. By night it was a sort of reminiscence of Paris. But finally Jack found an ice-cream saloon, and that closed investigations for that evening. The weather was very hot, it had been many a day since Jack had seen ice-cream, and so it was useless to talk of leaving the saloon till it shut up.

In the morning the lost tribes of America came ashore and infested the hotels and took possession of all the donkeys and other open barouches that offered. They went in picturesque procession to the American Consul’s; to the great gardens; to Cleopatra’s Needles; to Pompey’s Pillar; to the palace of the Viceroy of Egypt; to the Nile; to the superb groves of date-palms. One of our most inveterate relic-hunters had his hammer with him, and tried to break a fragment off the upright Needle and could not do it; he tried the prostrate one and failed; he borrowed a heavy sledge hammer from a mason and failed again. He tried Pompey’s Pillar, and this baffled him. Scattered all about the mighty monolith were sphinxes of noble countenance, carved out of Egyptian granite as


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Rh hard as blue steel, and whose shapely features the wear of five thousand years had failed to mark or mar. The relic-hunter battered at these persistently, and sweated profusely over his work. He might as well have attempted to deface the moon. They regarded him serenely with the stately smile they had worn so long, and which seemed to say, “Peck away, poor insect; we were not made to fear such as you; in ten-score dragging ages we have seen more of your kind than there are sands at your feet: have they left a blemish upon us?”

But I am forgetting the Jaffa Colonists. At Jaffa we had taken on board some forty members of a very celebrated community. They were male and female; babies, young boys and young girls; young married people, and some who had passed a shade beyond the prime of life. I refer to the “Adams Jaffa Colony.” Others had deserted before. We left in Jaffa Mr. Adams, his wife, and fifteen unfortunates who not only had no money but did not know where to turn or whither to go. Such was the statement made to us. Our forty were miserable enough in the first place, and they lay about the decks seasick all the voyage, which about completed their misery, I take it. However, one or two young men remained upright, and by constant persecution we wormed out of them some little information. They gave it reluctantly and in a very fragmentary condition, for, having been shamefully humbugged by their prophet, they felt humiliated and unhappy. In such circumstances people do not like to talk.

The colony was a complete fiasco. I have already said that such as could get away did so, from time to time. The prophet Adams—once an actor, then several other things, afterward a Mormon and a missionary, always an adventurer—remains at Jaffa with his handful of sorrowful subjects. The forty we brought away with us were chiefly destitute, though not all of them. They wished to get to Egypt. What might become of them then they did not know and probably did not care—any thing to get away from hated Jaffa. They had little to hope for. Because after many appeals to the sympathies of


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614 New England, made by strangers of Boston, through the newspapers, and after the establishment of an office there for the reception of moneyed contributions for the Jaffa colonists, One Dollar was subscribed. The consul-general for Egypt showed me the newspaper paragraph which mentioned the circumstance and mentioned also the discontinuance of the effort and the closing of the office. It was evident that practical New England was not sorry to be rid of such visionaries and was not in the least inclined to hire any body to bring them back to her. Still, to get to Egypt, was something, in the eyes of the unfortunate colonists, hopeless as the prospect seemed of ever getting further.

Thus circumstanced, they landed at Alexandria from our ship. One of our passengers, Mr. Moses S. Beach, of the New York Sun, inquired of the consul-general what it would cost to send these people to their home in Maine by the way of Liverpool, and he said fifteen hundred dollars in gold would do it. Mr. Beach gave his check for the money and so the troubles of the Jaffa colonists were at an end.

Alexandria was too much like a European city to be novel, and we soon tired of it. We took the cars and came up here


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Rh to ancient Cairo, which is an Oriental city and of the completest pattern. There is little about it to disabuse one’s mind of the error if he should take it into his head that he was in the heart of Arabia. Stately camels and dromedaries, swarthy Egyptians, and likewise Turks and black Ethiopians, turbaned, sashed, and blazing in a rich variety of Oriental costumes of all shades of flashy colors, are what one sees on every hand crowding the narrow streets and the honeycombed bazaars. We are stopping at Shepherd’s Hotel, which is the worst on earth except the one I stopped at once in a small town in the United States. It is pleasant to read this sketch in my note-book, now, and know that I can stand Shepherd’s Hotel, sure, because I have been in one just like it in America and survived:

I stopped at the Benton House. It used to be a good hotel, but that proves nothing—I used to be a good boy, for that matter. Both of us have lost character of late years. The Benton is not a good hotel. The Benton lacks a very great deal of being a good hotel. Perdition is full of better hotels than the Benton.

It was late at night when I got there, and I told the clerk I would. like plenty of lights, because I wanted to read an hour or two. When I reached No. 15 with the porter (we came along a dim hall that was clad in ancient carpeting, faded, worn out in many places, and patched with old scraps of oil cloth—a hall that sank under one’s feet, and creaked dismally to every footstep,) he struck a light—two inches of sallow, sorrowful, consumptive tallow candle, that burned blue, and sputtered, and got discouraged and went out. The porter lit it again, and I asked if that was all the light the clerk sent. He said, “Oh no, I’ve got another one here,” and he produced another couple of inches of tallow candle. I said, “Light them both—I’ll have to have one to see the other by.” He did it, but the result was drearier than darkness itself. He was a cheery, accommodating rascal, He said he would


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616

go “somewheres” and steal a lamp. I abetted and encouraged him in his criminal design. I heard the landlord get after him in the hall ten minutes afterward.

“Where are you going with that lamp?”

“Fifteen wants it, sir.”

“Fifteen! why he’s got a double lot of candles—does the man want to illuminate the house?—does he want to get up a torch-light procession?—what’s he up to, any how?”

“He don’t like them candles—says he wants a lamp.”

“Why what in the nation does—why I never heard of such a thing? What on earth can he want with that lamp?”

“Well, he only wants to read—that’s what he says.”

“Wants to read, does he?—ain’t satisfied with a thousand candles, but has to have a lamp!—I do wonder what the devil that fellow wants that lamp for? Take him another candle, and then if”

“But he wants the lamp—says he’ll burn the d—d old house down if he don’t get a lamp!” (a remark which I never made.)

“I’d like to see him at it once. Well, you take it along—but I swear it beats my time, though—and see if you can’t find out what in the very nation he wants with that lamp.”

And he went off growling to himself and still wondering and wondering over the unaccountable conduct of No. 15. The lamp was a good one, but it revealed some disagreeable things—a bed in the suburbs of a desert of room—a bed that had hills and valleys in it, and you’d have to accommodate your body to the impression left in it by the man that slept there last, before you could lie comfortably; a carpet that had seen better days; a melancholy washstand in a remote corner, and a dejected pitcher on it sorrowing over a broken nose; a looking-glass split across the centre, which chopped your head off at the chin and made you look like some dreadful unfinished monster or other; the paper peeling in shreds from the walls.

I sighed and said: “This is charming; and now don’t you think you could get me something to read?”

The porter said, “Oh, certainly; the old man’s got dead loads of books;” and he was gone before I could tell him what sort of literature I would rather have. And yet his countenance expressed the utmost confidence in his ability to execute the commission with credit to himself. The old man made a descent on him.

“What are you going to do with that pile of books?”

“Fifteen wants ’em, sir.”

“Fifteen, is it? He'll want a warming-pan, next—he’ll want a nurse! Take him every thing there is in the house—take him the bar-keeper—take him the baggage-wagon—take him a chamber-maid! Confound me, I never saw any thing like it. What did he say he wants with those books?”

“Wants to read ’em, like enough; it ain’t likely he wants to eat ‘em, I don’t reckon.”

“Wants to read ’em—wants to read ’em this time of night, the infernal lunatic! Well he can’t have them.”

“But he says he’s mor’ly bound to have ’em; he says he’ll just go a-rairin’ and a-chargin’ through this house and raise morewell, there’s no tellin’ what he


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Rh

won't do if he don’t get em; because he’s drunk and crazy and desperate, and nothing’ll soothe him down but them cussed books.” [I had not made any threats, and was not in the condition ascribed to me by the porter.]

“Well, go on; but I will be around when he goes to rairing and charging, and the first rair he makes I’ll make him rair out of the window.” And then the old gentleman went off, growling as before.

The genius of that porter was something wonderful. He put an armful of books on the bed and said “Good night” as confidently as if he knew perfectly well that those books were exactly my style of reading matter. And well he might. His selection covered the whole range of legitimate literature. It comprised “The Great Consummation,” by Rev. Dr. Cummings—theology; “Revised Statutes of the State of Missouri”—law; ‘‘The Complete Horse-Doctor”—medicine; “The Toilers of the Sea,” by Victor Hugo—romance; “The works of William Shakspeare”—poetry. I shall never cease to admire the tact and the intelligence of that gifted porter.

But all the donkeys in Christendom, and most of the Egyptian boys, I think, are at the door, and there is some noise going on, not to put it in stronger language.—We are about starting to the illustrious Pyramids of Egypt, and the donkeys for the voyage are under inspection. I will go and select one before the choice animals are all taken.


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HE donkeys were all good, all handsome, all strong and in good condition, all fast and all willing to prove it. They were the best we had found any where, and the most recherche. I do not know what recherche is, but that is what these donkeys were, anyhow. Some were of a soft mouse-color, and the others were white, black, and vari-colored. Some were close-shaven, all over, except that a tuft like a paint-brush was left on the end of the tail. Others were so shaven in fanciful landscape garden patterns, as to mark their bodies with curving lines, which were bounded on one side by hair and on the other by the close plush left by the shears. They had all been newly barbered, and were exceedingly stylish. Several of the white ones were barred like zebras with rainbow stripes of blue and red and yellow paint. These were indescribably gorgeous. Dan and Jack selected from this lot because they brought back Italian reminiscences of the “old masters.” The saddles were the high, stuffy, frog-shaped things we had known in Ephesus and Smyrna. The donkey-boys were lively young Egyptian rascals who could follow a donkey and keep him in a canter half a day without tiring. We had plenty of spectators when we mounted, for the hotel was full of English people bound overland to India and officers getting ready for the African campaign against the Abyssinian King Theodorus. We were not a very large party, but as we charged through the streets of the great metropolis, we made noise for five hundred, and displayed activity and created excitement in proportion. Nobody can steer a donkey, and some collided with camels, dervishes,


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Rh effendis, asses, beggars and every thing else that offered to the donkeys a reasonable chance for a collision. When we turned into the broad avenue that leads out of the city toward Old Cairo, there was plenty of room. The walls of stately date-palms that fenced the gardens and bordered the way, threw their shadows down and made the air cool and bracing. We rose to the spirit of the time and the race became a wild rout, a stampede, a terrific panic. I wish to live to enjoy it again.

Somewhere along this route we had a few startling exhibitions of Oriental simplicity. A girl apparently thirteen years of age came along the great thoroughfare dressed like Eve before the fall. We would have called her thirteen at home; but here girls who look thirteen are often not more than nine, in reality. Occasionally we saw stark-naked men of superb build, bathing, and making no attempt at concealment. However, an hour’s acquaintance with this cheerful custom reconciled the pilgrims to it, and then it ceased to occasion remark. Thus easily do even the most startling novelties grow tame and spiritless to these sight-surfeited wanderers.

Arrived at Old Cairo, the camp-followers took up the donkeys and tumbled them bodily aboard a small boat with a lateen sail, and we followed and got under way. The deck was closely packed with donkeys and men; the two sailors had to climb over and under and through the wedged mass to work the sails, and the steersman had to crowd four or five donkeys out of the way when he wished to swing his tiller and put his helm hard-down. But what were their troubles to us? We had nothing to do; nothing to do but enjoy the trip; nothing to do but shove the donkeys off our corns and look at the charming scenery of the Nile.

On the island at our right was the machine they call the Nilometer, a stone-column whose business it is to mark the rise of the river and prophecy whether it will reach only thirty-two feet and produce a famine, or whether it will properly flood the land at forty and produce plenty, or whether it will rise to forty-three and bring death and destruction to flocks and crops—but how it does all this they could not explain to us so


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620 that we could understand. On the same island is still shown the spot where Pharaoh’s daughter found Moses in the bulrushes. Near the spot we sailed from, the Holy Family dwelt when they sojourned in Egypt till Herod should complete his slaughter of the innocents. The same tree they rested under when they first arrived, was there a short time ago, but the Viceroy of Egypt sent it to the Empress Eugenie lately. He was just in time, otherwise our pilgrims would have had it.

The Nile at this point is muddy, swift and turbid, and does not lack a great deal of being as wide as the Mississippi.

We scrambled up the steep bank at the shabby town of Ghizeh, mounted the donkeys again, and scampered away. For four or five miles the route lay along a high embankment which they say is to be the bed of a railway the Sultan means to build for no other reason than that when the Empress of the French comes to visit him she can go to the Pyramids in comfort. This is true Oriental hospitality. I am very glad it is our privilege to have donkeys instead of cars.

At the distance of a few miles the Pyramids rising above the palms, looked very clean-cut, very grand and imposing, and very soft and filmy, as well. They swam in a rich haze that


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 child, child's child, sibling, sibling's child, aunt, or cousin that one fornicated with.

5 The kinship of the soul, from Baptism or from Confirmation, was heard from one another; and the one who provides the Baptism, and provides the Confirmation, and the one who receives the Baptism, and receives the Confirmation, are related. And the father and the mother are related. And these relationships are alike. These relationships cannot be approached by any other.

6 And the other great impediments. When there is a person wishing to be a spouse, having left their spouse, living, and residing in a village far away, and when they have left each other, this is to be declared:


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City of Edmonds v. Oxford House, Inc.

Respondent Oxford House operates a group home in Edmonds, Washington, for 10 to 12 adults recovering from alcoholism and drug addiction in a neighborhood zoned for single-family residences. Petitioner City of Edmonds (City) issued citations to the owner and a resident of the house, charging violation of the City's zoning code. The code provides that the occupants of single-family dwelling units must compose a "family," and defines family as "persons [without regard to number] related by genetics, adoption, or marriage, or a group of five or fewer [unrelated] persons." Edmonds Community Development Code (ECDC) § 21.30.010. Oxford House asserted reliance on the Fair Housing Act (FHA), which prohibits discrimination in housing against, inter alios, persons with handicaps. Discrimination covered by the FHA includes "a refusal to make reasonable accommodations in rules, policies, practices or services, when such accommodations may be necessary to afford [handicapped] person[s] equal opportunity to use and enjoy a dwelling." 42 U.S.C. § 3604(f)(3)(B). Edmonds subsequently sued Oxford House in federal court, seeking a declaration that the FHA does not constrain the City's zoning code family definition rule. Oxford House counterclaimed under the FHA, charging the City with failure to make a "reasonable accommodation" permitting the maintenance of the group home in a single-family zone. Respondent United States filed a separate action on the same FHA "reasonable accommodation" ground, and the cases were consolidated. The District Court held that the City's zoning code rule defining "family," ECDC § 21.30.010, is exempt from the FHA under 42 U.S.C. § 3607(b)(1) as a "reasonable restrictio[n] regarding the maximum number of occupants permitted to occupy a dwelling." The Court of Appeals reversed, holding § 3607(b)(1)'s absolute exemption inapplicable.

Held: Edmonds' zoning code definition of the term "family" is not a maximum occupancy restriction exempt from the FHA under § 3607(b)(1). Pp. 731–738.

(a) Congress enacted § 3607(b)(1) against the backdrop of an evident distinction between municipal land-use restrictions and maximum occupancy restrictions. Land-use restrictions designate districts—e.g., [p726] commercial or single-family residential—in which only compatible uses are allowed and incompatible uses are excluded. Reserving land for single-family residences preserves the character of neighborhoods as family residential communities. To limit land use to single-family residences, a municipality must define the term "family"; thus family composition rules are an essential component of single-family use restrictions. Maximum occupancy restrictions, in contradistinction, cap the number of occupants per dwelling, typically on the basis of available floor space or rooms. Their purpose is to protect health and safety by preventing dwelling overcrowding. Section 3607(b)(1)'s language—"restrictions regarding the maximum number of occupants permitted to occupy a dwelling"—surely encompasses maximum occupancy restrictions, and does not fit family composition rules typically tied to land-use restrictions. Pp. 732–735.

(b) The zoning provisions Edmonds invoked against Oxford House, ECDC §§ 16.20.010 and 21.30.010, are classic examples of a use restriction and complementing family composition rule. These provisions do not cap the number of people who may live in a dwelling: So long as they are related by "genetics, adoption, or marriage," any number of people can live in a house. A separate ECDC provision—§ 19.10.000—caps the number of occupants a dwelling may house, based on floor area, and is thus a prototypical maximum occupancy restriction. In short, the City's family definition rule, ECDC § 21.30.010, describes family living, not living space per occupant. Defining family primarily by biological and legal relationships, the rule also accommodates another group association: Five or fewer unrelated people are allowed to live together as though they were family. But this accommodation cannot convert Edmonds' family values preserver into a maximum occupancy restriction. Edmonds' contention that subjecting single-family zoning to FHA scrutiny will overturn Euclidian zoning and destroy the effectiveness and purpose of single-family zoning both ignores the limited scope of the issue before this Court and exaggerates the force of the FHA's antidiscrimination provisions, which require only "reasonable" accommodations. Since only a threshold question is presented in this case, it remains for the lower courts to decide whether Edmonds' actions violate the FHA's prohibitions against discrimination. Pp. 735–738.

18 F.3d 802, affirmed.

, J., delivered the opinion of the Court, in which, C.J., and , and , JJ., joined. , J., filed a dissenting opinion, in which and, JJ., joined, post, p. 738.

[p727] W. Scott Snyder argued the cause and filed briefs for petitioner.

William F. Sheehan argued the cause for private respondents. With him on the brief were Elizabeth M. Brown, David E. Jones, John P. Relman, Robert I. Heller, and Steven R. Shapiro.

Deputy Solicitor General Bender argued the cause for respondent United States. With him on the brief were Solicitor General Days, Assistant Attorney General Patrick, Cornelia T. L. Pillard, Jessica Dunsay Silver, and Gregory B. Friel.

title: City of Edmonds v. Oxford House, Inc.


text: Talk:City of Edmonds v. Oxford House, Inc.


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Rh These grave impediments are thus, they are to be known and said and uncovered.

7 Do not think of these kinships like how we call them; they are to be called as how I say them and how all Christians say them. The father that begat me, I call Father. The mother that gave birth to me, I call Mother. The grandfather that begat my Father, and that begat my Mother, I call Grandfather. The grandmother that gave birth to my Father, and that gave birth to my Mother as well, I call Grandmother. My child that I speak of, that I myself begat, I call my Child. I call my child too. We say Grandchild,