 A Pair of Silk Stockings by Kate Chopin. Little Mrs. Somers one day found herself the unexpected possessor of fifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money, and the way in which it stuffed and bulged her worn old Port-au-Monnais gave her a feeling of importance such as she had not enjoyed for years. The question of investment was one that occupied her greatly. For a day or two she walked about apparently in a dreamy state, but really absorbed in speculation and calculation. She did not wish to act hastily. To do anything she might afterward regret. But it was during the still hours of the night when she lay awake revolving plans in her mind that she seemed to see her way clearly toward a proper and judicious use of the money. A dollar or two should be added to the price usually paid for Janey's shoes, which would ensure their lasting and appreciable time longer than they usually did. She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new shirt-waists for the boys and Janey and Mag. She had intended to make the old ones due by skillful patching. Mag should have another gown. She had seen some beautiful patterns, veritable bargains in the shop windows. And still there would be left enough for new stockings, two pairs apiece, and what darning that would save for a while. She would get caps for the boys and sailor hats for the girls. The vision of her little brood looking fresh and dainty and new for once in their lives excited her and made her restless and wakeful with anticipation. The neighbors sometimes talked of certain better days that little Mrs. Somers had known before she had ever thought of being Mrs. Somers. She herself indulged in no such morbid retrospection. She had no time, no second of time to devote to the past. The needs of the present absorbed her every faculty. A vision of the future like some dim gaunt monster sometimes appalled her. But luckily tomorrow never comes. Mrs. Somers was one who knew the value of bargains, who could stand for hours making her way inch by inch toward the desired object that was selling below cost. She could elbow her way, if need be. She had learned to clutch a piece of goods and hold it and stick to it with persistence and determination till her turn came to be served. No matter when it came. But that day she was a little faint and tired. She had swallowed a light luncheon. No! When she came to think of it, between getting the children fed and the place righted and preparing herself for the shopping bout, she had actually forgotten to eat any luncheon at all. She sat herself upon a revolving stool before a counter that was comparatively deserted, trying to gather strength and courage to charge through an eager multitude that was besieging breastworks of shirting and figured lawn. An all-gone limp feeling had come over her, and she rested her hand aimlessly upon the counter. She wore no gloves. By degrees she grew aware that her hand had encountered something very soothing, very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings. A placard nearby announced that they had been reduced in price. From two dollars and fifty cents to one dollar and ninety-eight cents. And a young girl who stood behind the counter asked if she wished to examine their line of silk hosiery. She smiled just as if she had been asked to inspect a tiara of diamonds with the ultimate view of purchasing it. But she went on feeling the soft, sheeny, luxurious things with both hands now, holding them up to see them glisten and to feel them glide serpent-like through her fingers. Two hectic blotches came suddenly into her pale cheeks. She looked up at the girl. Do you think there are any eights and a half among these? There were any number of eights and a half. In fact there were more of that size than any other. Here was a light blue pair, there were some lavender, some all black, and various shades of tan and gray. Mrs. Summers selected a black pair and looked at them very long and closely. She pretended to be examining their texture, which the clerk assured her was excellent. A dollar and ninety-eight cents she mused aloud. Well, I'll take this pair. She handed the girl a five-dollar bill and waited for her change and for her parcel. What a very small parcel it was. It seemed lost in the depths of her shabby old shopping bag. Mrs. Summers after that did not move in the direction of the bargain counter. She took the elevator, which carried her to an upper floor into the region of the lady's waiting rooms. Here, in a retired corner, she exchanged her cotton stockings for the new silk ones which she had just bought. She was not going through any acute mental process or reasoning with herself, nor was she striving to explain to her satisfaction the motive of her action. She was not thinking at all. She seemed for the time to be taking a rest from that laborious and fatiguing function and to have abandoned herself to some mechanical impulse that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility. How good was the touch of the raw silk to her flesh. She felt like lying back in the cushioned chair and reveling for a while in the luxury of it. She did for a little while. Then she replaced her shoes, rolled the cotton stockings together, and thrust them into her bag. After doing this, she crossed straight over to the shoe department and took her seat to be fitted. She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out. He could not reconcile her shoes with her stockings. And she was not too easily pleased. She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her head another way as she glanced down at the polished pointed tipped boots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize that they belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an excellent and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her. And she did not mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the price so long as she got what she desired. It was a long time since Mrs. Somers had been fitted with gloves. On rare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always bargains. So cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have expected them to be fitted to the hand. Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter. And a pretty pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a long, risted kid over Mrs. Somers' hand. She smoothed it down over the wrist and buttoned it neatly and both lost themselves for a second or two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand. But there were other places where money might be spent. There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few paces down the street. Mrs. Somers bought two high-priced magazines, such as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had been accustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping. As well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her stockings and boots and well-fitting gloves had worked marvels in her bearing, had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to the well-dressed multitude. She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings for food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed herself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available. But the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertain any such thought. There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors. From the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask and shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of fashion. When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation as she had half-feared at might. She seated herself at a small table alone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. She did not want a profusion. She craved a nice and tasty bite, a half-dozen blue-points, a plump chop with crass, and something sweet, a creme frappé, for instance, a glass of rind wine, and after all a small cup of black coffee. While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very leisurely and laid them beside her. Then she picked up a magazine and glanced through it, cutting the pages with a blunt edge of her knife. It was all very agreeable. The damask was even more spotless than it had seemed through the window, and the crystal more sparkling. There were quiet ladies and gentlemen who did not notice her, sitting at the small tables like her own. A soft, pleasing strain of music could be heard, and a gentle breeze was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read a word or two, and she sipped the amber wine and wiggled her toes in the silk stockings. The price of it made no difference. She counted the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin in his tray, whereupon he bowed before her as before a princess of royal blood. There was still money in her purse, and her next temptation presented itself in the shape of a matinee poster. It was a little later when she entered the theatre. The play had begun, and the house seemed to her to be packed. But there were vacant seats here and there, and into one of them she was ushered between brilliantly dressed women, who had gone there to kill time, and eat candy and display their gaudy attire. There were many others who were there solely for the play and acting. It is safe to say there was no one present who bore quite the attitude which Mrs. Somers did to her surroundings. She gathered in the whole stage and players and people in one wide impression, and absorbed it and enjoyed it. She laughed at the comedy and wept. She and the gaudy woman next to her wept over the tragedy, and they talked a little over it. And the gaudy woman wiped her eyes and sniffled on a tiny square of filmy perfume lace and passed little Mrs. Somers her box of candy. The play was over, the music ceased, the crowd filed out. It was like a dream ended. People scattered in all directions. Mrs. Somers went to the corner and waited for the cable car. A man with keen eyes who sat opposite to her seemed to like the study of her small pale face. It puzzled him to decipher what he saw there. In truth he saw nothing, unless he were wizard enough to detect a poignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stop anywhere but go on and on with her forever. End of A Pair of Silk Stockings by Kate Chopin Recording by Grace Buchanan Simon of Cyrene by Oscar Wilde, as told to Amy Louther. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rob Marland Simon of Cyrene The old man sat with bowed head and patient back, while the futile recriminations of his angry wife beat about his ears. Like an endless cascade splashed the dull reiteration of her reproaches. Senseless grey beard, why did ye lose your time loitering on the way? Your father and his father and his father before him all were keepers of the temple gate, and had you been prompt when ye were sent for, ye would doubtless have been made keeper likewise. But now already a man hath been chosen. O most foolish old man, who did prefer to loiter on the way, so that forsooth you might carry the cross for some young carpenter, a seditious criminal. It is true, said the old man. I met the young man, who was to be crucified, and the censorian bade me carry his cross, and after that I had carried it to the top of the hill I still lingered, because of the words which he spake, for he was sorely grieved, but with a grief which was not for himself, but for others, and the wonder of his words held me there, so that I forgot all things. Yes, in verity you forgot all things, and the little sense you ever had, and so came too late to be made keeper of the temple gate. Are you not ashamed to think that your father and his father and his father before him were all keepers of the gate of the Lord's house, and that their names are written thereon in letters of gold, which will be read by all men in times to come for ever and for I? But thou, vain old dotard, alone of all thy kin, will never be heard of again, for whom in all the world, when thou art dead, will ever hear the name of Simon of Cyrenee. End of Simon of Cyrenee by Oscar Wilde, as told to Amy Louther. Advantages of Being Slandered By Epps Sargent This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Everybody speaks well of him. I am sorry to hear it, for then he must have vowed as low to knaves and fools as to the honest dignity of virtue and of talent. Sheridan. Is it possible? True. Every word of it. I had it direct from Mrs. Marvel. You know, is a very matter-of-fact sort of man, and the last in the world to invent such a story about anybody. Well, I never would have believed that young Langsdell could have fallen into such habits. So inconsiderate, too, at this moment, when his bed-ridden old uncle is hesitating as to how he shall dispose of his immense estate. Oh, that will probably go to Mr. Allen, the other nephew, who is a perfect model for the young men of the age in his presence, and who calls on old Gregory twice a day dutifully to inquire upon his health. And doesn't the dissipated one have sense enough to do the same? Quite the contrary. Langsdell hasn't called on his uncle these six months. He is too fond of his bottle and his cigar to concern himself about the old gentleman. And which one of the nephews is favored by the famous beauty Mrs. Maverly, the fortunate one, of course, which soever he may be. But as the chances of wealth are now in the favor of Allen, Langsdell is not so much encouraged as present as formerly. And so Langsdell really has a cottage at Bloomingdale, and— Hush! Don't for the world repeat it as though it was coming from me. Though, at the same time, I must say, I think it proper that such things should be known. Oh, to be sure they should. I have a dozen more calls to make this morning, my dear Mrs. B. Good day! Be sure and return my visit soon. And thus sang Miss Potter took her leave, and made a dozen calls in rapid succession, and everywhere communicated the intelligence she had gathered in regard to Mr. Langsdell. These agreeable intimations were but part of a system of abuse, which had been originated by Mr. Harraby, an old friend of Mr. Langsdell's, and a masterly tactician in his management of the minor peculiarities of human nature. Langsdell had been complaining that Miss Maverly gave him no encouragement, and that his uncle had assured him that he should only leave him enough in his will to buy him a suit of mourning. Harraby heard this intelligence with concern, for he was himself indebted to Langsdell for the loan of some odd hundreds, and though he well knew he should never be done for the repayment, he was yet desirous of keeping his young friend in a position where he should never feel the temptation of want. Harraby applied himself to the study of Langsdell's case, questioned him minutely as to what the world said of him, what were Miss Maverly's characteristics, and what were the uncles. He learnt that the young lady was of a romantic turn of mind, ambitious but high-spirited and generous, fond of admiration, and remarkably fond of having her own way. According to Langsdell's belief, however, the good and beautiful preponderated in her character as well as in her person. As for old Gregory, the uncle, he had been a roux in his youth, but now entirely reformed. He took credit to himself for the change, but the fact was that gout and insimpid disease had rotted. He belonged to some dozen temperate societies and abused his old friend King Alcohol with the habitual zeal of new converts. Harraby reflected long and intently upon these particulars which Langsdell communicated. At last he exclaimed, I see it, my young friend, I have struck the root of the mischief. The fact is you have altogether too good a character. You are too amiable, too correct, too unexceptionable in your department. You don't afford pegs enough for Slander to hang her little exaggerations upon. You must commit some trifling peccadillos, or you will be ruined. Let me see. Suppose you stand in the colonnade before Pinto's tomorrow with a cigar in your mouth and your cheeks very much flushed, but no. There is not the least occasion that you should do anything of the kind. Slander requires no straw in the manufacture of her bricks. Imagination supplies material solid enough for her. I must backbite you, little Langsdell. To give currency to a few bits of scandal. Get you very well abused. Then there will be some hope of retrieving your fortunes. Really, Harraby, replied Langsdell, I do not comprehend your tactics. Look at my cousin Allen. See what an excellent character he enjoys, and what will be the consequence. He will marry Ellen Maverly and become Old Gregory's heir. Buy upon your faint heart. He will never do any such thing. He is ruining himself by playing the saint. Why, Harraby, he is the president of a temperate society, and surely if anything can prejudice his uncle in his favor, it will be that fact. All a mistake. You show your ignorance of human nature, my dear boy, in saying so. Self-love is at the bottom of all of our actions. I take that as an axiom. Now is it the way to win Old Gregory's favor, to make it continually apparent to his understanding that you are vastly better than he was at your age? But the lady, Harraby, surely she will prefer that her lover should be a man of unobjectionable character, unobjectionable humbug. How will she ever find out that she loves him, unless someone gives her an opportunity of defending him? Ah, let all the world traduce, rather than praise me to the woman, whose love I would win. Where would your philosophy lead to, asked Langdale, if you are right, then the old proverb is wrong, and honesty is not the best policy. For its own sake, said Harraby, it is, for our own peace of mind and the smile of our conscience, I would not give much for honesty, which is based solely upon trust in its policy. How much more cautious than the author of this old saw is Shakespeare when he says, corruption wins not more than honesty, from which we may infer that honesty wins not more than corruption, which I believe to be a fact. But we are straying from the subject before us. The question is, how are you to regain the favor of your uncle and your mistress? I have revealed to you the means. Give me a cart blanche to slander you, and all shall be well. Really, my dear Harraby, this is a most original plan for advancing one's fortune, but I rely upon your superior sagacity and knowledge of the world. I leave my character in your hands, and I will reconcine it to a maiden lady of my acquaintance, who will deal with it very tenderly. There the conference between Harraby and his pupil terminated, and the former drew his silk handkerchief over his hat, and went forth to set afoot the project he had originated. The result did not fully appear until several months had elapsed. By that time Langdell had become one of the most notorious young men about time, studious in his habit, with a constitutional repugnance to central excesses, and passing the greater part of his time amongst his books. He yet innocently acquired the reputation of being a five-bottle man, a gay deceiver, a gambler, and a confirmed rape. Mothers warned their daughters against his insidious arts. Prudent fathers threatened their sons with rustication in the event of their venturing to mingle in his society. Numberless were the stories of his extravagances, his scrapes, his gaming propincities. Harraby, when he heard of these things, as he often would from mamas and papas, looked gray, shook his head, and remarked that it was a pity that such a fine man should so throw himself away. And all the while poor Langdell, forgetful even of his friend's project in his behalf, was deeply engaged in the preparation of a work on ornithology, a favorite study with him, and rarely went forth except for exercise. At length the physicians gave the world to understand that old Gregory could not survive more than a week or two. His large fortune rendered it, of course, an interesting subject for public speculation. Who was to be his heir? Alan, of course, said the world, and Alan thought so himself, and took the occasion to ask Mrs. Maverlet point blank if she objected to him as a son-in-law. The mother expressed herself charmed at the prospect. But Alan positively said, No. The mother stormed and threatened. The daughter, retired, weeping to her chamber, and sitting down to a writing-disc addressed a long letter to Langdell, who, discouraged by demonstration of aversions on the part of the mother, and misinterpreted caprices on the part of the daughter, had retired, sick at heart, from the candidacy for her hand. We cannot quote the whole of Ellen's letter, for it would only be laughed at. She had heard of Langdell's fabled career of dissipation and supposed that he had surrendered himself to it on account of his despair of ever attaining her hand. Readful stories were told of him, she said, but she didn't believe half of them, not half. Everybody seemed forsaking him now. Even his old uncle had cut him off without a shilling. So her mother declared. Under these circumstances she had discovered that she loved him better than anybody else in the world, and, Mary, Mr. Alan, she wouldn't. Nothing should force her to that. She expressed a hope, nay, she was sure that Langdell would reform under her influence, and that she could never believe that he was a fiftieth part as bad as people represented him. Which was the tenor of the young lady's letter? Langdell had not finished reading and kissing it when he received a summons to attend the death bed of his uncle. Sincerely concerned at the intelligence of his kinsman's serious illness, he hastened to fulfill the summons. Gregory was the only remaining brother of his departed mother, and though Langdell had never experienced from him any kindness and expected no advantage from his death, he now keenly felt a twinge of remorse at his long neglect of the childless old gentleman. On his way he encountered Herobie, who insisted on accompanying him. They entered the sick chamber together. Before they reached the bed, the occupant had breathed his last. Several persons were present in the apartment, a clergyman, Mr. Groff the attorney, a physician, Alan, and a servant. Langdell uttered an unaffected exclamation of regret upon learning what had happened, but did not pretend to have very vehement emotion. Alan sat, with his handkerchief to his eyes, the picture of disconsolate affliction. After ascertaining that due preparations would be made for the Asipgutis, Langdell signified to Herobie his intention of returning home. Stop a moment, young friend, said Mr. Groff. There may be something that will interest you in this paper. Alan put down his handkerchief and pricked up his ears. Mr. Groff drew forth a paper tied with red tape from his pocket, and without further preface read the following passage from the last will and testament of the deceased. Whereas my nephew, Hopkins Alan, has manifested a becoming interest in the good cause of temperance, I hereby bequeath the sum of five thousand dollars to the Asylum for Inebriates on the condition that said Hopkins Alan is made one of the trustees of the said institution. And whereas my nephew, Arthur Langdell, unless some strong inducement is offered to him to reform, is likely to become a candidate for the humane offices of the directors of the said Asylum, I hereby bequeath to him the bulk of my property, consisting of real estate, et cetera, et cetera, as enumerated in Schedule A, on condition that he will from this time forth abandon the use of ardent spirits, and I leave it solely to his honor as a gentleman to declare whether or no he accedes to this condition. A groan from Mr. Alan, a smothered hazzah from Harraby, and a cry of surprise from Langdell succeeded the reading of this extraordinary cause. What say you now to my tactics, ask Harraby, when he and Langdell were in the open street? Without waiting for a reply, he continued, I have only one regret. It is that this should have occurred before Ellen Maverly had declared herself in your favor. Her disinterestedness would be questionable, should she smile upon you now. Not at all. Read that letter, replied Langdell. Victorious on every side, exclaimed Harraby, as he skimmed its contents. Didn't I tell you so? Wasn't it my abuse of you that brought you all this good fortune? It would seem so, and yet how unnatural. Not at all. Didn't the Athenians tired of hearing Aristides call the just, and isn't it human nature the same now that it ever was? Your fool of a cousin got people to surround your uncle, who continually rung in the old man's ears the praises of his nephews. Of you he heard nothing but bad reports. But with you he felt that he had sympathies in common. He could say to his own heart, I was the same wild dog myself when I was his age. He was true to his nature at last. Self-love triumphs, as I calculated it would triumph. I shall never speak ill of slanderers after this, said Langdell. They have their uses, depend on it, rejoined Harraby. For Allen he has fallen victim to the irreproachableness of his character. But there are Maberyly's marble steps. Suppose you go in and ask Allen to fix the marriage day. End of advantages of being slandered by Epps Sargent. Read by Kelly Taylor. There was Witch Street by Stacey Omonier, 1877 to 1928. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Tomlinson. In the public bar of the Wagtail in Wapping, four men and a woman were drinking beer and discussing diseases. It was not a pretty subject, and the company was certainly not a handsome one. It was a dark November evening, and the dingy lighting of the bar seemed but to emphasise the bleak exterior. Drifts of fog and damp from without mingled with the smoke of shag. The sanded floor was kicked into a muddy morass, not unlike the surface of the pavement. An old lady down the street had died from pneumonia the previous evening, and the events supplied a fruitful topic of conversation. The things that one could get everywhere were germs eager to destroy one. At any minute the symptoms might break out, and so one foregathered in a cheerful spot amidst friends and drank forgetfulness. Prominent in this little group was Baldwin Meadows, a solo-faced villain with battered features and prominent cheekbones. His face cut and scarred by a hundred fights. Black seaman, ex-fish porter, indeed, to every one's knowledge, ex-everything. No one knew how he lived. By his side loised an enormous coloured man who went by the name of Harry Jones. Grinning above a tankard sat a pimply-faced young man who was known as The Agent. Silver rings adorned his fingers. He had no other name and, most emphatically, no address. But he arranged things for people and appeared to thrive upon it in a scrambling, fugitive manner. The other two people were Mr. and Mrs. Dawes. Mr. Dawes was an entirely negative person, but Mrs. Dawes shone by virtue of a high whining insistent voice keyed to within half a note of hysteria. Then at one point the conversation suddenly took a peculiar turn. It came about through Mrs. Dawes, mentioning that her aunt, who died from eating tin lobster, used to work in a corset shop in Witch Street. When she said that, The Agent, whose right eye appeared to survey the ceiling, whilst his left eye looked over the other side of his tankard, remarked, Where was Witch Street, Ma? Lord exclaimed Mrs. Dawes, don't you know, dearie, you must be a young and you must. Why, when I was a girl, everyone knew Witch Street. It was just down there where they built the Kingsway, like. Baldwin Meadows cleared his throat and said, Witch Street used to be a turning running from Long Acre into Wellington Street. Oh, no, old boy, chipped in Mr. Dawes, who always treated the X-man with great deference. If you'll excuse me, Witch Street was a narrow lane at the back of the Old Globe Theatre that used to pass by the church. Oh, I know what I'm talking about, growled Meadows. Mrs. Dawes' high nasal wine broke in. Hi, Mr. Booth, you used to know your way about. Where was Witch Street? Mr. Booth, the proprietor, was polishing a tap. He looked up. Witch Street? Yes, of course I knew Witch Street. I used to go there with some of the boys when I was Covent Garden Way. It was right angles to the Strand, just east of Wellington Street. No, it weren't. It were alongside the Strand, before you had come to Wellington Street. The coloured man took no part in the discussion, one street or one city being alike to him, provided he could obtain the material comforts dear to his heart. But the others carried it on with a certain amount of acerbity. Before any agreement had been arrived at, three other men entered the bar. The quick eye of Meadows recognised them at once as three of what was known at that time as the Gallows Ring. Every member of the Gallows Ring had done time, but they still carried on a lucrative industry devoted to blackmail, intimidation, shoplifting and some of the Clumsier recreations. Their leader, Ben Orming, had served seven years of bashing a Chinaman down at Rotherhithe. The Gallows Rings was not popular in whopping for the reason that many of their depredations had been inflicted upon their own class. When Meadows and Harry Jones took it into their heads to do a little wild prancing, they took the trouble to go up into the West End. They considered the Gallows Ring an un-gentlemanly set. Nevertheless, they always treated them with a certain external deference, an unpleasant crowd to quarrel with. Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, and they leant against the bar and whispered in sullen accents. Something had evidently miscarried with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine above the general drone of the bar. Suddenly she said, Ben, you're a hot old devil, you are. We was just having a discussion, like, where was Witch Street? Ben scowled at her, and she continued. Some says it was one place, some says it was another. I know where it was, cos my aunt had died from blood poison after eating tin lobster, used to work at a corset shop. Yes, but Ben emphatically, I know where Witch Street was. It was just south of the river, a four-year come to Waterloo station. It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no part in the discussion, sought fit to intervene. Nope, you's all wrong, Captain. Witch Street were alongside the church, way over where the strand takes the sideline up west. Ben turned on him fiercely. What the blazes does a blankety nigger know about it? I told you where Witch Street was. Yes, and I know where it was, interposed meadows. You're both wrong. Witch Street was a turning running from Long Acre into Wellington Street. I didn't ask you what you thought, Groud Ben. Well I suppose I have a right to an opinion. You always think you know everything you do. You can just keep your mouth shut. It'd take more mute a shut it. Mr Boo thought it advisable that this juncture to ball across the bar. Now, gentlemen, no quarreling please. The affair might have been subsided at that point, but for Mrs Dawes, her emotions over the death of the old lady in the street had been so stirred that she had been almost unconsciously drinking too much gin. She suddenly screamed out, Can't you take no blip from him, Mr Meadows, the dirty thieving devil? He always thinks he's going to come in over everyone. She stood up threateningly, and one of Ben's supporters gave her a gentle push backwards. In three minutes of bar was in a complete state of pandemonium. The three members of the gallows' ring fought two men and a woman, for Mr Dawes merely stood in a corner and screamed out, Don't, don't! Mrs Dawes stabbed the man who had pushed her through the wrist with a hatpin. Meadows and Ben Allman closed on each other and fought savagely with the naked fists. A lucky blow early in the encounter sent Meadows reading against the wall, with blood streaming down his temple. Then the coloured man hurled a pewter-tankard straight at Ben, and it hit him on the knuckles. The pain maddened him to a frenzy. His other supporter had immediately got to grips with Harry Jones and picked up one of the highstools, and seizing an opportunity brought it down crash onto the coloured man's skull. The whole affair was a matter of minutes. Mr Booth was bawling out in the street. A whistle sounded. People were running in all directions. Beat it! Beat it for God's sake, called the man who had been stabbed through the wrist. His face was very white, and he was obviously about to faint. Ben and the other man, whose name was Toller, dashed to the door. On the pavement there was a confused scramble. Blows were struck indiscriminately. Two policemen appeared. One was laid poor to combat by a kick on the kneecap from Toller. The two men fled into the darkness, followed by a hewn cry. Born and bred in the locality, they took every advantage of their knowledge. They tacked through alleys and raced down dark mues, and clambered over walls. Fortunately for them the people they passed, who might have tripped them up or aided in the pursuit, merely fled indoors. The people of Wapping are not always on the side of the pursuer. But the police held on. At last Ben and Toller slipped through the door of an empty house in Aztec Street, barely ten yards ahead of their nearest pursuer. Blows rained on the door, but they slipped the bolts, and then fell panting to the floor. When Ben could speak, he said, if they cop us it means swinging. Was the nigger done in? I think so. But even if he wasn't, there was that other affair the night before last. The games up. The ground floor rooms were shuttered and bolted, but they knew that the police would probably force the front door. At the back there was no escape, only a narrow stable yard, where lanterns were already flashing. The roof only extended thirty yards either way, and the police would probably take the possession of it. They made a round of the house, which was sketchily furnished. There was a loaf, a small piece of mutton, and a bottle of pickles, and the most precious possession, three bottles of whisky. Each man drank half a glass of neat whisky. Then Ben said, we'll be able to keep him quiet for a bit anyway, and he went and fetched an old twelve-bore gun and a case of cartridges. Tollo was opposed to this last desperate resort, but Ben continued to murmur. It means swinging anyway. And thus began the notorious siege of Aztec Street. It lasted three days and four nights. You may remember that on forcing a panel of the front door, sub-inspector race of the Fifth Division was shot through the chest. The police then tried other methods. A hose was brought into play without effect. Two policemen were killed and four wounded. The military was requisitioned. The street was picketed. Snipers occupied windows of the house's opposite. A distinguished member of the cabinet drove down in a motor-car and directed operations in a top hat. It was the introduction of poison gas, which was the ultimate cause of the downfall of the Citadel. The body of Ben Orming was never found, but that of Tollo was discovered near the front door with a bullet through his heart. The medical officer to the court pronounced that the man had been dead three days. But whether killed by a chance bullet from a sniper or whether killed deliberately by his fellow criminal was never revealed. For when the end came, Orming had apparently planned the final act of venom. It was known that in the basement a considerable quantity of petrol had been stored. The contents had probably been carefully distributed over the most inflammable materials in the top rooms. The fire broke out, as one witness described it, almost like an explosion. Orming must have perished in this. The roof blazed up and the sparks carried across the yard and started a stack of light timber in the annex of Messer's Morrell's piano factory. The factory and two blocks of tenement buildings were burnt to the ground. The estimated cost of the destruction was 180,000 pounds. The casualties amounted to seven killed and 15 wounded. At the inquiry held under the Chief Justice Pengamon, various odd interesting facts were revealed. Mr. Lowes-Palby, the brilliant young KC, distinguished himself by his search in cross-examination of many witnesses. At one point, a certain Mrs. Dawes was put in the box. Now, said Mr. Lowes-Palby, I understand that on the evening in question, Mrs. Dawes, you and the victims and these other people who have been mentioned, were all seated in the public bar of the Wagtail, enjoying its no doubt excellent hospitality and indulging in a friendly discussion. Is that so? Yes, sir. Now, will you tell his lordship what you were discussing? Diseases, sir. Diseases? And did that argument become acrimonious? Pardon? Was there a serious dispute about the diseases? No, sir. Well, what was the subject of the dispute? We was arguing as to where which street was, sir. What's that? asked his lordship. The witness states, my lord, that they were arguing as to where which street was. Which street? Do you mean W.Y.C.H.? Yes, sir. You mean the narrow old street that used to run across the site of what is now the Gayety Theatre? Mr. Lowes-Palby smiled in his most charming manner. Yes, my lord, I believe the witness refers to the same street you mentioned, though if I may be allowed to qualify your lordship's description of locality, may I suggest that it was a little further east at the site of the old Globe Theatre, which was adjacent to St. Martin's in the Strand. That is the street you were all arguing about, isn't it, Mrs. Dawes? Well, sir, my aunt, who died from eating tin lobster, used to work at a corset shop. I ought to know. His lordship ignored the witness. He turned to the council rather previously. Mr. Lowes-Palby, when I was your age, I used to pass through which street every day of my life. I did so for nearly twelve years. I think it hardly necessary for you to contradict me. The council bowed. It was not his place to dispute with the chief justice, although that chief justice be a hopeless old fool. But another eminent K.C., an elderly man with a tawny beard, rose in the body of the court and said, if I may be allowed to interpose your lordship, I also spent a great deal of my youth passing through which street. I've gone into the matter comparing past and present ordinance survey maps. If I am not mistaken, the street the witness was referring to began near the hoarding at the entrance to Kingsway and ended at the back of what is now the Old Witch Theatre. Oh, no, Mr. Backer exclaimed Lowes-Palby. His lordship removed his glasses and snapped out the matter is entirely irrelevant to the case. It certainly was, but the brief passage of arms left an unpleasant tang of bitterness behind. It was observed that Mr. Lowes-Palby never again quite got the prehensile grip upon his cross-examination that he had shown in his treatment of the earlier witnesses. The coloured man Harry Jones had died in hospital, but Mr. Booth, the proprietor of the Wagtail, Baldwin Meadows, Mr. Dawes, and the man who was stabbed in the wrist, all gave evidence of a rather nougatary character. Lowes-Palby could do nothing with it. The findings of this special inquiry do not concern us. It is sufficient to say that the witnesses already mentioned all return to whopping. The man who had received the thrust of a hatpin through his wrist did not think it advisable to take any action against Mrs. Dawes. He was pleasantly relieved to find that he was only required as a witness of an abortive discussion. In a few weeks' time, the great Aztec Street siege remained only a romantic memory to the majority of Londoners. To Lowes-Palby, the little dispute with Chief Justice Pengamon rankled unreasonably. It is annoying to be publicly snubbed for making a statement which you know to be absolutely true and which you have even taken pains to verify. And Lowes-Palby was a young man accustomed to score. He made a point of looking everything up, of being prepared for an adversary thoroughly. He liked to give the appearance of knowing everything. The brilliant career just ahead of him at times dazzled him. He was one of the darlings of the gods. Everything came to Lowes-Palby. His father had distinguished himself at the bar before him and had amassed a modest fortune. He was an only son. At Oxford he had carried off every possible degree. He was already being spoken of for very high political honours. But the most sparkling jewel in the crown of his success was Lady Adela Charters, the daughter of Lord Vermeer, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. She was his fiancée and it was considered the most brilliant match of the season. She was young and almost pretty and Lord Vermeer was immensely wealthy and one of the most influential men in Great Britain. Such a combination was irresistible. There seemed to be nothing missing in the life of France's Lowes-Palby, K.C. One of the most regular and absorbed spectators at the Azdecs Street Inquiry was old Stephen Garrett. Stephen Garrett held a unique but quite inconspicuous position in the legal world at that time. He was a friend of judges, a specialist at various abstruse legal rulings, a man of remarkable memory and yet an amateur. He had never taken sick, never eaten the requisite dinners, never passed an examination in his life, but the law of evidence was meet and drink to him. He passed his life in the temple where he had chambers. Some of the most eminent council in the world would take his opinion or come to him for advice. He was very old, very silent and very absorbed. He attended every meeting of the Azdecs Street Inquiry, but from beginning to end he never volunteered an opinion. After the inquiry was over he went and visited an old friend at the London Survey Office. He spent two mornings examining Matt. After that he spent two mornings pottering about the Strand, Kingsway and Aldwych. Then he worked out some careful calculations on a ruled chart. He entered the particulars in a little book which he kept for purposes of that kind and then retired to his chambers to study other matters. Before doing so he entered a little apotheon in another book. It was apparently a book in which he intended to compile a summary of his legal experience. The sentence ran, the basic trouble is that people make statements without sufficient data. Old Stephen need not have appeared in this story at all except for the fact that he was present at the dinner of Lord Vermeer's where a rather deplorable incident occurred. And you must acknowledge that in the circumstances it is useful to have such a valuable and efficient witness. Lord Vermeer was a competent, falseful man, a little quick tempered and autocratic. He came from Lancashire and before entering politics had made an enormous fortune out of borax, artificial manure and starch. It was a small dinner party with a motive behind it. His principal guest was Mr. Sanderman, the London agent of the Amir of Bakhan. Lord Vermeer was very anxious to impress Mr. Sanderman and to be very friendly with him. The reasons will appear later. Mr. Sanderman was a self-confessed cosmopolitan. He spoke seven languages and professed to be equally at home in any capital in Europe. London had been his headquarters for over 20 years. Lord Vermeer also invited Mr. Arthur Toombs, a colleague in the cabinet, his prospective son-in-law, Loes Palby, KC, James Trolley, a very tame socialist MP and Sir Henry and Lady Braid. The two latter being invited not because Sir Henry was of any use but because Lady Braid was a pretty and brilliant woman who might amuse his principal guest. The sixth guest was Stephen Garrett. The dinner was a great success. When the succession of courses eventually came to a stop and the ladies had retired, Lord Vermeer conducted his male guest into another room for a 10-minute smoke before rejoining them. It was then that the unfortunate incident occurred. There was no love lost between Loes Palby and Mr. Sandman. It is difficult to ascribe the real reason of their mutual animosity, but on the several occasions when they had met, they had invariably passed a certain sardonic bi-play. They were both clever, both comparatively young, each a little suspect and jealous of the other. Moreover, it was said in some quarters that Mr. Sandman had had intentions himself with regard to Lord Vermeer's daughter that he had been on the point of a proposal when Loes Palby had butted in and forestalled him. Mr. Sandman had dined well and he was in the mood to dazzle with the display of his varied knowledge and experiences. The conversation drifted from a discussion of the rival claims of great cities to the slow, inevitable removal of old landmarks. There had been a slightly acrimonious disagreement between Loes Palby and Mr. Sandman as to the claims of Budapest and Lisbon and Mr. Sandman had scored because he extracted from his rival a confession that, though he had spent two months in Budapest, he'd only spent two days in Lisbon. Mr. Sandman had lived for four years in either city. Loes Palby changed the subject abruptly. Talking of landmarks, he said, we had a queer point arise in that Aztec street inquiry. The original dispute arose owing to a discussion between a crowd of people in a pub as to where which street was. I remember, said Lord Vermeer, a perfectly absurd discussion. Why, I should have thought that any man over 40 would remember exactly where it was. Where would you say it was, sir? asked Loes Palby. Why, can be sure it ran from the corner of Chancery Lane and ended at the second turning after the law-courts going west? Loes Palby was about to reply when Mr. Sandman cleared his throat and said in his supercilious, oily voice, excuse me, my lord, I know my Paris, Vienna and Lisbon every brick and stone, but I look upon London as my home. I know my London even better. I have a perfectly clear recollection of which street. When I was a student, I used to visit there to buy books. It ran parallel to New Oxford Street on the south side just between It and Lincoln's Inn Fields. There was something about this assertion that infuriated Loes Palby. In the first place, it was so hopelessly wrong and so insufferably asserted. In the second place, he was already smarting under the indignity of being shown up about Lisbon and then there suddenly flashed through his mind the wretched incident when he had been publicly snubbed by Justice Penguin about the very same point and he knew he was right each time. Damn which street! He turned on Mr. Sandman. Oh, nonsense! You may know something about these eastern cities. You certainly know nothing about London if you make a statement like that. Which street was a little farther east of what is now the Gayety Theatre? It used to run by the side of the Old Globe Theatre parallel to the Strand. The dark moustache of Mr. Sandman shot upwards revealing a narrow line of yellow teeth. He uttered a sound that was a mingling of contempt and derision. Then he drawled out. Really, how wonderful to have such comprehensive knowledge! He laughed and his small eyes fixed his rival. Lowe's palby flushed a deep red. He gulped down a glass of port and mutter just above a whisper. Damn the incidents! Then in the rudest manner he could display he turned his back deliberately on Sandman and walked out of the room. In the company of Adela he tried to forget the little contra-tongue. The whole thing was so absurd, so utterly undignified as though he didn't know. It was the little accumulation of pinpricks all arising out of that one argument. The result had suddenly goaded him to, well, being rude, to say the least of it. It wasn't that Sandman mattered. To the devil was Sandman. But what would his future father-in-law think? He had never before given way to any show of ill temper before him. He forced himself into a mood of rather fatuous jocularity. Adela was at her best in those moods. They would have lots of fun together in the days to come. Her almost pretty, not too clever face was dimpled with kittenish glee. Life was a tremendous rag to her. They were expecting Takata, the famous opera singer. She had been engaged at a very high fee to come on from Covent Garden. Mr. Sandman was very fond of music. Adela was laughing and discussing which was the most honorable position for the great Sandman to occupy. They came to Lowe's palvia, sudden abrupt misgiving. What sort of wife would this be to him when they were not just fooling? He immediately dismissed the curious, furtive little stab of doubt. The splendid proportions of the room calmed his senses. A huge bowl of dark red roses quickened his perceptions. His career, the door opened, but it was not Lowe's Takata. It was one of the household flunkies. Lowe's palvia turned again to his Inamorata. Excuse me, sir, his lordship says, will you kindly go and see him in the library? Lowe's palvia regarded the messenger and his heart beat quickly. An uncontrollable press age of evil racked his nerve centers. Something had gone wrong, and yet the whole thing was so absurd, trivial. In a crisis, well, he could always apologize. He smiled confidently at Adela and said, why, of course, with pleasure, please excuse me, dear. He followed the impressive servant out of the room. His foot had barely touched the carpet of the library when he realized that his worst apprehensions were to be plumbed to the depths. For a moment he thought Lord Vermeer was alone. Then he observed old Stephen Garrett, lying in an easy chair in the corner, like a piece of crumpled parchment. Lord Vermeer did not beat about the bush. When the door was closed, he bawled out savagely, what the devil have you done? Excuse me, sir, I'm afraid I don't understand. Is it Sanderman? Sanderman has gone. Oh, I'm sorry. Sorry, by God, I should think you might be sorry. You insulted him. My prospective son-in-law insulted him in my own house. I'm awfully sorry, I didn't realize. Realize, sit down and don't assume for one moment that you continue to be my prospective son-in-law. Your insult was a most intolerable piece of effrontery, not only to him, but to me. But I listened to me. Do you know that the government were on the verge of concluding a most far-reaching treaty with that man? Do you know that the position was just touch and go? The concessions we were prepared to make would have cost the state 30 million pounds, and it would have been cheap. Do you hear that? It would have been cheap. Barkin is one of the most vulnerable outposts of the empire. It is a terrible danger zone. If certain powers can usurp our authority, and mark you, the whole lame place is already riddled with this new, pernicious doctrine, you know what I mean. Before we know where we are, the whole east will be in a blaze. India, my God. This contract we were negotiating would have countered this outward thrust. And you, you blockhead, you come here and insult the man upon whose word the whole thing depends. I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this. You can't see it, but you fool. You seem to go out of your way. You insulted him about the nearest quibble in my house. He said he knew where which street was. He was quite wrong. I corrected him. Which street? Which street be damned? If he said which street was in the moon, you should have agreed with him. There was no call to act in the way you did. And you, you think of going into politics. The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed. Loew's pulvery was too unnerved. He mumbled, I'm very sorry. I don't want your sorrow. I want something more practical. What's that, sir? You will drive straight to Mr. Sanderman's find him and apologize. Tell him you find that he was right about which street after all. If you can't find him tonight, you must find him tomorrow morning. I give you till midday tomorrow. If by that time you have not offered a handsome apology to Mr. Sanderman, you do not enter this house again. You do not see my daughter again. Moreover, all the power I possessed will be devoted to hounding you out of that profession. You have dishonored. Now you can go. Dazed and shaken, Loew's pulvery drove back to his flat at Knightsbridge. Before acting, he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer had given him till tomorrow midday. Any apologizing that was done should be done after a night's reflection. The fundamental purposes of his being were to be tested. He knew that. He was at a great crossing. Some deep instinct within him was grossly outraised. Is it that a point comes when success demands that a man shall sell his soul? It was also absurdly trivial. A mere argument about the position of a street that had ceased to exist. As Lord Vermeer said, what did it matter about which street? Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so. But what if man sacrificed everything on account of some footling argument about a street? In his own rooms, Loew's pulvery put on his dressing gown and, lighting a pipe, he sat before the fire. He would have given anything for companionship at such a moment. The right companionship. How lovely it would be to have a woman, just the right woman, to talk this over with. Someone who understood and sympathized. A sudden vision came to him of Adela's face grinning about the prospective visit of Lata Carter and, again, the low voice of misgiving whispered in his ears. Would Adela be just the right woman? In very truth, did he really love Adela? Or was it all a rag? Was life a rag? A game played by lawyers, politicians and people? The fire burned low, but still he continued to sit sinking, his mind principally occupied with the dazzling visions of the future. It was past midnight when he suddenly muttered a low, damn, and walked to the bureau. He took up a pen and wrote, Dear Mr. Sanderman, I must apologize for acting so rude with you last night. It was quite unpardonable of me, especially as I since find, on going into the matter, that you were quite right about the position of which street. I can't think how I made the mistake. Please forgive me. Yours, cordially, France's Lowe's Pulby. Having written this, he sighed and went to bed. One might have imagined at that point that the matter was finished, but there are certain little greedy demons of conscience that require a lot of stilling, and they kept Lowe's Pulby awake more than half the night. He kept on repeating to himself, it's all positively absurd. But the little greedy demons pranced around the bed, and they began to group things into two definite issues. On the one side, the great appearances, on the other, something at the back of it all, something deep, fundamental, something that could only be expressed by one word, truth. If he had really loved Adela, if he weren't so absolutely certain that Sanderman was wrong and he was right, why should he have to say that which street was where it wasn't? Isn't there, after all, so one of the little demons, something which makes for greater happiness than success? Confess this, and we'll let you sleep. Perhaps that is one of the most potent weapons the little demons possess. However full our lives may be, be ever long for moments of tranquility, and conscience holds before our eyes some mirror of an ultimate tranquility. Lowe's Pulby was certainly not himself. The gay, debonair, and brilliant agovist was tortured and tortured almost beyond control, and it had all apparently risen through the ridiculous discussion about a street. At a quarter past three in the morning, he arose from his bed with a groan, and going into the other room, he tore the letter to Mr. Sanderman to pieces. Three weeks later, old Stephen Garrett was lunching with the Lord Chief Justice. They were old friends, and they never found it incumbent to be very conversational. The lunch was an excellent but frugal meal. They both ate slowly and thoughtfully, and their drink was water. It was not till they reached the dessert stage that his lordship indulged in any very informative comment, and then he recounted to Stephen the details of a recent case in which he considered that the presiding judge had, by an unprecedented paralogy, misinterpreted the law of evidence. Stephen listened with absorbed attention. He took two covenants from the silver dish and turned them over meditatively without cracking them. When his lordship had completely stated his opinion and peeled a pear, Stephen mumbled, I had been impressed, very impressed indeed. Even in my own field of limited observation, the opinion of an outsider, you may say, so often it happens, the trouble caused by an affirmation without sufficiently established data. I have seen lives lost, ruin brought about, endless suffering. Only last week a young man, a brilliant career, almost shattered, people make statements without. He put the nuts back on the dish, and then in an apparently irrelevant manner, he said abruptly, do you remember which street, my lord? The lord chief justice grunted, which street? Of course I do. Where would you say it was, my lord? Why here, of course, his lordship took a pencil from his pocket and sketched a plan on the tablecloth. It used to run from there to here. Stephen adjusted his glasses and carefully examined the plan. He took a long time to do this, and when he had finished his hand, instinctively went towards the breast pocket where he kept a notebook with little squared pages. Then he stopped and sighed. After all, why argue with the law? The law was like that, an excellent thing, not infallible, of course. Even the plan of the lord chief justice was a quarter of a mile out, but still an excellent, a wonderful thing. He examined the bony knuckles of his hands and yawned slightly. Do you remember it, said the lord chief justice? Stephen nodded sagely, and his voice seemed to come from a long way off. Yes, I remember it, my lord. It was a melancholy little street. End of Where Was Which Street by Stacey Armonnier, recording by Peter Tomlinson.