 The Art of Book-Making by Washington Irving. If that severe doom of Senecius be true, it is a greater offense to steal men's labour than their clothes. What shall become of most writers? Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads on which nature seems to have inflicted the curse of barrenness should team with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my pre-regrenations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. I was, one summer's day, loitering through the great salons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about a museum in warm weather, sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant door at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would open, and some strange favoured being, generally clothed in black, would steal forth and glide through the rooms without noticing any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery about this which piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the passage of that straight, and to explore the unknown regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with all that facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous night air, and I found myself in a spacious chamber surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which sat many pale, studious personages pouring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among moldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious apartment, accepting that you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, and occasionally the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted position to turn over the page of an old folio, doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident of learned research. Now and then one of these personages would write something on a small slip of paper and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous tombs, upon which the other would fall tooth and nail, with famished veracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale of a philosopher shut up in an enchanted library in the bosom of a mountain, which opened only once a year, where he made the spirits of the place bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that, at the end of the year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and control the powers of nature. My curiosity, being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of the familiars as he was about to leave the room, and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. I found that these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and were in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading room of the Great British Library, an immense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read, one of these sequestered pools of obsolete literature, to which modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or pure English undefiled, wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, and watched the process of this book-manufactory. I noticed one lean, billus-looking right, who sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes printed in black letter. He was evidently constructing some work of profound euridition, that would be purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf in his library, or lain open upon his table, but never read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw, whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself to determine. There was one dapper little gentleman, in bright-colored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his book-seller. After considering him attentively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made more stir and show of business than any of the others, dipping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little, there a little. The contents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witch's cauldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger, there a thumb, toe of frog, blind worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like baboon's blood, to make the medley slab and good. After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition, be implanted in authors for wise purposes, may it not be the way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works in which they were first produced? We see that nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the conveyance of seeds from climb to climb in the moths of certain birds, so that animals, which in themselves are little better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchards in cornfield, are in fact nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of predatory writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many of their works also undergo a kind of methampsychosis and spring up under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous history revives in the shape of a romance. An old legend changes into a modern play, and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is, in the clearing of our American woodlands, where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place, and we never see the prostate trunk of a tree mouldering in the soil, but it gives a birth to a whole tribe of fungi. Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into which ancient writers descend. They do but submit to the great law of nature, which declares that all sublimary shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees also that their element shall never perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species continues to flourish. Thus also do authors beget authors, and having produced enumerous progeny in a good old age they sleep with their fathers. That is to say, with the authors who preceded them, and from whom they had stolen. Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios, whether it was owing to the sporific emanations of these works, or to the profound quiet of the room, or to the lastitude arising from much wandering, or to an unlucky habit of napping, at improper times and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was that I fell into a dose. Still however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene continued before my mind's eye, only little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was increased. The long tables had disappeared, and in place of the sage magi I beheld a ragged and threadbare throng, such as may be seen prying about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to dreams, me thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, that no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed ockling several moldy, polemical writers through an eyeglass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having perloined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly wise, but the smirking commonplace of his countenance set at not all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nose-gay on his bosom, cold from the paradise of dainty devices, and, having put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front, but he was lamentably tattered in the rear. And I perceived that he had patched his small clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own ornaments without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit. But I grieved to say that too many were apt to array themselves from toe to toe in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak of one genius in drab reaches and gators in an Akkadian hat who had a violet propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic haunts of Proomrose Hill and the solitudes of the regents' park. He had decked himself in the wreaths and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and hanging his head on one side went about with a fantastical Lachydaisical air, babbling about green field. But the personage that most struck my attention was a pragmatical old gentleman in clerical robes with a remarkably large and square but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quattro claptid upon his head, and swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. In the height of this literary masquerade a cry suddenly resounded from every side of Thieves! Thieves! I looked, and lo the portraits about the walls became animated. The old authors thrust out, first ahead, then a shoulder from the canvas, looked down curiously for an instant upon the motley throng, and then descended with fury in their eyes to claim their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks stripping a modern professor. On another there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Buemont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like castor and pullecks, and Sturdy Ben Johnson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer in the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of Farragos mentioned some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, feigned to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig who was scrambling away in saura fright with half a score of authors in full cry after him. They were close upon his haunches, and a twinkling off went his wig at every turn some strip of rainment was peeled away, until in a few moments from his domineering pomp he shrunk into a little Percy-chopped bald shot, and made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his back. There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this learned Theban that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumultant scuffle were at an end, the chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back into their picture frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of hookworms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of my dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom as to electrify the fraternity. The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary preserve subject to game laws that no one must presume to hunt there without special license and permission. In a word I stood convicted of being an aren't poacher, and was glad to make a precipitous retreat lest I should have the whole pack of authors that loose upon me. End of the Art of Book Making Beneath an Umbrella by Nathaniel Hawthorne 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 James Christopher Beneath an Umbrella by Nathaniel Hawthorne Pleasant is a rainy winter's day within doors. The best study for such a day, or the best amusement, call it which you will, is a book of travels, describing scenes the most unlike that somber one which is mystically presented through the windows. I have experienced that fancy is then most successful in imparting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the objects which the author has spread upon his page, and that his words become magic spells to summon up a thousand varied pictures. Strange landscapes glimmer through the familiar walls of the room, and outlandish figures thrust themselves almost within the sacred precincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, it has space enough to contain the ocean-like circumference of an Arabian desert, its part sands tracked by the long lines of a caravan, with the camels patiently journeying through the heavy sunshine. Though my ceiling not be lofty, yet I can pile in the mountains of Central Asia beneath it, till their summits shine far above the clouds of the middle atmosphere. And, with my humble means, a wealth that is not taxable, I can transport hither the magnificent merchandise of an oriental bazaar, and call a crowd of purchasers from distant countries to pay a fair profit for the precious articles which are displayed on all sides. True it is, however, that amid the bustle of traffic, or whatever else may seem to be going on around me, the raindrops will occasionally be heard to patter against my window-panes, which look forth upon one of the quietest streets in a New England town. After a time, too, the visions vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding. Then, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of unreality depresses my spirits, and appels me to venture out, before the clock shall strike bedtime, to satisfy myself that the world is not entirely made up of such shadowy materials, as have busied me throughout the day. A dreamer may dwell so long among fantasies that the things without him will seem as unreal as those within. When Eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, tightly butting my shaggy overcoat, and hoisting my umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible raindrops. Pausing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast the warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drear obscurity and chill discomfort into which I am about to plunge. Now come fearful auguries, innumerable as the drops of rain. Did not my manhood cry shame upon me, I should turn back within doors, resume my elbow chair, my slippers, and my book. Pass such an evening of sluggish enjoyment as the day has been, and go to bed and glorious. The same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has quelled for a moment the adventurous spirit of many a traveler, when his feet, which were destined to measure the earth around, were leaving their last tracks in the home paths. In my own case, poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings. I look upward into certain no-sky, not even an unfathomable void, but only a black and penetrable nothingness, as though heaven and all its lights were blotted from the system of the universe. It is as if nature were dead, and the world had put on black, and the clouds were weeping for her. With their tears upon my cheek I turn my eyes earthward, but find little consolation here below. A lamp is burning dimly at the distant corner, and throws just enough of light along the street to show and exaggerate by so faintly showing the perils and difficulties which beset my path. Yonder, dingily white remnant of a huge snow bank, which will yet cumber the sidewalk to the latter days of March. Over or through that wintry waste I must stride onward. Beyond lies a certain slough of despond, a concoction of mud and liquid filth, ankle deep, leg deep, neck deep, and a word of unknown bottom, on which the lab light does not even glimmer, but which I have occasionally watched in the gradual growth of its horrors, from morn till nightfall. Should I flounder into its depths, farewell to upper earth, and hark, how roughly resounds the roaring of a stream, the turbulent career of which is partially reddened by the gleam of the lamp, but elsewhere braws noisily through the densest gloom. Oh, should I be swept away in forting that impestuous and unclean torrent, the corner will have a job with an unfortunate gentleman, who would feign into his troubles anywhere but in a mud puddle. Pishaw, I will linger not another instant in arm's length from these dim terrors, which grow more obscurely formidable the longer I delay to grapple with them. Now for the onset, and two, with little damage, save a dash of rain, in the face and breast, a splash of mud high up the pantaloons, and the left boot full of ice-cold water, behold me at the corner of the street. The lamp throws down a circle of red light around me, and twinkling onward from corner to corner, I discern other beacons marshaling my way to a brighter scene, but this is alone some dreary spot. The tall edifice's big gloomy defiance to the storm, with their blinds all closed, even as a man winks when he faces a spattering gust. How loudly tinkles the collected rain down the ten spouts. The puffs of wind are boisterous, and seem to assail me from various quarters at once. I have often observed that this corner is a haunt and loitering place for those winds which have no work to do upon the deep, dashing ships against our iron-bound shores, nor in the forest tearing up the silvan giants with half a root of soil at their vast roots. Here they must amuse themselves with lesser freaks of mischief. See, at this moment, how they assail yonder poor woman who is passing just within the verges of the lamp-light. One blast struggles for her umbrella, and turns it wrongside outward. Another whisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes. While a third takes most unwarrantable liberties with the lower part of her attire. Happily, the good dame is no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshly substance. Else would these aerial tormentors whirl her aloft, like a witch upon a broomstick, and set her down doubtless in the filthiest kennel hereabout. From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the center of the town. Here there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great victory has been won, either on the battlefield or at the poles. Two rows of shops, with windows down nearly to the ground, cast a glow from side to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy, and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. The wet side walks clean with a broad sheet of red light. The raindrops glitter, as if the sky were pouring down rubies. The spouts gush with fire. We think the scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare which mortals throw around their footsteps in the mortal world, thus bedazzling themselves, till they forget the impenetrable obscurity that hymns them in, and that can be dispelled only by radiance from above. And, after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are the wanderers in it. Here comes one who has so long been familiar with tempestuous weather that he takes the bluster of the storm for a friendly greeting, as if it should say, How fair ye, brother? He is a retired sea-captain, wrapped in some nameless garment of the P-jacket order, and is now laying his course towards the marine insurance office, there to spend yarns of gale and shipwreck with a crew of old sea-dogs like himself. The blast will put in its word among their hoarse voices, and be understood by all of them. Next I meet an unhappy slip-shot gentleman with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a race with boisterous winds and striving to glide between the drops of rain. Some domestic emergency or other has blown this miserable man from his warm fireside in quest of a doctor. See that little vagabond? How carelessly he has taken his stand right underneath the spout while staring at some object of curiosity in a shop window. Surely the rain is his native element. He must have fallen with it from the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do. Here is a picture and a pretty one. A young man and a girl, both enveloped in cloaks, and huddled underneath the scanty protection of a cotton umbrella. She wears rubber overshoes. But he is in his dancing pumps, and they are on their way, no doubt, to Sonic Catillion party, or subscription ball at a dollar ahead, refreshments included. Thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest, lured onward by a vision of festal splendor. But ah, most lamentable disaster, bewildered by the red, blue, and yellow meteors in an apothecary's window, they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice, and are precipitated into a confluence of swollen floods at the corner of two streets. Luckless lovers, were it my nature to be other than a looker on, in life, I would attempt your rescue. Since that may not be, I vow, should you be drowned to such a pathetic story of your fate, as shall call forth tears to drown you both anew. Do ye touch bottom, my young friends? Yes, they emerge like water nymph in a river deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the depths of the dark pool. They hurry homeward, dripping, disconsolate, abashed. But with love too warm to be chilled by cold weather. They have stood a test which proved too strong for many. Faithful, though overhead in ears and trouble. Onward I go, deriding a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the varied aspect of mortal affairs, even as my figure catches a gleam from the lighted windows, or is blackened by an interval of darkness. Not that mine is altogether a chameleon spirit with no hue of its own. Now I pass into a more retired street, where the dwellings of wealth and poverty are intermingled, presenting a range of strongly contrasted pictures. Here too may be found the golden meme. Through yonder casement I discern a family circle, the grandmother, the parents and the children, all flickering, shadow light in the glow of a wood fire. Bluster, fierce blast and beat thou wintery rain against the windowpains. Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside. Surely my fate is hard, that I should be wandering homeless here, taking to my bosom night in storm and solitude, instead of wife and children. Peace, murmur, doubt not that darker guests are sitting round the hearth, though the warm blaze hides all but blissful images. Well, here is still a brighter scene. A stately mansion, illuminated for a ball, with cut glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in every room, and sunny landscapes hanging round the walls. See, a coach is stopped. Wentz emerges a slender beauty, who canopy by two umbrellas, glides within the portal and vanishes amid lightsome thrills of music. Will she ever feel the night wind and the rain? Perhaps, perhaps. And will death and sorrow ever enter that proud mansion? As surely as the dancers will be gay within its halls tonight. Such thoughts sadden, yet satisfy my heart, for they teach me that the poor man, in his mean weather-beaten hobble, without a fire to cheer him, may call the riches brother, brethren by sorrow, who must be an inmate of both their households, brethren by death, who will lead them both to other homes. Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. Now have I reached the outmost limit of the town, where the last lamp struggles feebly with the darkness, like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated space. It is strange what sensations of sublimity may spring from a very humble source. Such are suggested by this hollow roar of a subterranean cataract, where the mighty stream of a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron gate, and is seen no more on earth. Listen a while to its voice of mystery, and fancy will magnify it till you start and smile at the illusion. And now, another sound, the rumbling of wheels. As the male coach, outward bound, rolls heavily off the pavement, and splashes through the mud and water of the road. All night long, the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream of their own quiet beds, and awake to find themselves still jolting onward. Happy are my lot, who will straightaway hide me to the familiar room, and toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing, and fitfully dozing, and fancying a strangeness in which such sights as all may see. But first let me gaze at this solitary figure, who comes hitherward with a tin lantern, which throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on the ground about him. He passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom, wither I will not follow him. This figure shall supply me with a moral, wherewith, for lack of a more appropriate one, I may wind up my sketch. He fears not to tread the dreary path before him, because his lantern, which was kindled at the fireside of his home, will light him back to that same fireside again. And thus we, night-wonders through a stormy and dismal world, if we bear the light of faith, and kindled with a celestial fire, it will surely lead us home to that heaven, whence its radiance was borrowed. End of Beneath an Umbrella 1847 In the left compartment of a certain first-class carriage were four passengers. Of these two were worse description. The lady had a smooth, white, delicate brow, strongly marked eyebrows, long lashes, eyes that seemed to change colour, and a good-sized, delicious mouth, with teeth as white as milk. A man could not see her nose for her eyes and mouth, her own sex could and would have told us some nonsense about it. She wore an unpretending greyish dress, buttoned to the throat with lozen-shaped buttons, and a Scottish shawl that agreeably evaded colour. She was like a duck, so tight her plain feathers fitted her, and there she sat, smooth, snug, and delicious, with a book in her hand, and a soup sort of her wrist, just visible as she held it. Her opposite neighbour was what I call a good style of man, the more to his credit, since he belonged to a corporation that frequently turned out the worst imaginable style of young men. He was a cavalry officer, aged 25. He had a moustache, but not a very repulsive one, not one of those subnasal pigtails on which soup is suspended like dew on a shrub. It was short, thick, and black as a coal. His teeth had not yet been turned by tobacco smoke to the colour of juice. His clothes did not stick to him or hang to him. He had an engaging smile, and what I liked the dog for, his vanity, which was inordinate, was in its proper place, his heart, not in his face jostling mine and other people's who have none. In a word, he was what one often hears of than meets a young gentleman. He was conversing in an animated whisper with a companion, a fellow officer. They were talking about what it is far better not to, but to women. Our friend clearly did not wish to be overheard, for he cast ever and none a furtive glance at his fair vis-à-vis and lowered his voice. She seemed completely absorbed in her book, and that reassured him. At last the two soldiers came down to a whisper, the truth must be told. The one who got down at Slough and was lost to posterity bet ten pounds to three, that he who was going down with his to-bath and immortality would not kiss either of the ladies opposite upon the road. Done, done! Now I am sorry a man I have hitherto praised should have lent himself even in a whisper to such a speculation, but nobody is wise at all ours, not even when the clock is striking five and twenty. And you are to consider his profession, his good looks and the temptation ten to three. After Slough the party was reduced to three. At Twilford one lady dropped her handkerchief. Captain D'Olignore fell on it like a lamb. Two or three words were interchanged on this occasion. At Redding the Marlborough of our tale made one of the safe investments of that day. He bought a tines and punch, the latter full of steel pen, thrusts and woodcut. Valorant beauty dained to laugh at some inflamed humbug or other punctured by punch. Now laughing together thaws our human eyes. Long before Swindon it was a talking match. At Swindon who so devoted as Captain D'Olignore? He handed them out, he souped them, he tough chickened them, he branded and cochinealed one and he branded and burnt sugared the other. On their return to the carriage one lady passed into the inner compartment to inspect a certain gentleman's seat on that side of the line. Reader, had it been you or I, the beauty would have been the deserter, the average one would have stayed with us till all would blue ourselves included. Not more surely does our slice of bread and butter when it escapes from our hand revolve it ever so often, a light face downward on the carpet. But this was a bit of a foc, a doneness, dragoon, so Venus remained in tetatept with him. You have seen a dog meet an unknown female of his species. How handsome, how oppressive, how expressive he becomes. Such was D'Olignore after Swindon. And to do the dog justice he got handsome and handsomer. And you have seen a cat conscious of approaching cream. Such was Miss Haydorn, she became demure and demure. Presently our captain looked out of the window and laughed. This elicited an inquiring look from Miss Haydorn. We're only a mile from the box tunnel. Do you always laugh a mile from the box tunnel? said the lady. Invariably. What for? Why, it is a gentleman's joke. Captain D'Olignore then recounted to Miss Haydorn the following. A lady and her husband sat together going through the box tunnel. There was one gentleman opposite. It was pitch dark. After the tunnel the lady said, George how absurd of you to salute me going through the tunnel. I did no such thing. You didn't? No, why? Because somehow I thought you did. Here Captain D'Olignore laughed and endeavoured to lead his companion to laugh, but it was not to be done. The train entered the tunnel. Miss Haydorn, ah! D'Olignore, what is the matter? Miss Haydorn, I am frightened. D'Olignore, moving to her side. Pray do not be alarmed. I am near you. Miss Haydorn, you are near me. Very near me indeed Captain D'Olignore. D'Olignore, you know my name? Miss Haydorn, I heard you mention it. I wish we were out of this dark place. D'Olignore, I could be content to spend hours here reassuring you my dear lady. Miss Haydorn, nonsense! D'Olignore. Grave reader, do not put our lips to the next pretty creature you meet. All understand what this means. Miss Haydorn, eh! Eh! Friend, what is the matter? Miss Haydorn, open the door, open the door! There was a sound of hurried whispers. The door was shut and the blind pulled down with hostile sharpness. If any critic falls on me for putting inarticulate sounds in a dialogue as above, I answer with all the insolence I can command at present, hit boys as big as yourself. Bigger, perhaps, such as Sophocles, Euripides and Aristophanes, they began it and I learned it of them sore against my will. Miss Haydorn's scream lost most of its effect because the engine whistled 40,000 murders at the same moment and fictitious grief makes itself heard when real cannot. Between the tumble and the bath our young friend had time to ask himself whether his conduct had been marked by that delicate reserve which is supposed to distinguish the perfect gentleman. With a long face, real or feigned, he held open the door. His late friend attempted to escape on the other side. Impossible, they must pass him. She whom he had insulted, Latin, the kissed, deposited somewhere at his feet a look of gentle, blushing reproach. The other whom he had not insulted darted red-hot dagger-datting from her eyes and so they parted. It was perhaps fortunate for Dolin Noor that he had the grace to be a friend to Major Hoskins of his regiment, a veteran laughed at by the youngsters for the Major was too apt to look coldly upon billiard balls and cigars. He had seen cannon balls and linstocks. He had also, to tell the truth, swallowed a good bit of the mess room poker which made it as impossible for Major Hoskins to descend to an un-gentleman-like word or action as to brush his own trousers below the knee. Captain Dolin Noor told this gentleman his story in a gleeful accent but Major Hoskins heard him coldly and as coldly answered that he had known a man to lose his life for the same thing. That is nothing, continued the Major but unfortunately he deserved to lose it. At this blood-mountage to the younger man's temples and his senior added, I mean to say he was thirty-five. You, I presume, are twenty-one. Twenty-five? That is much the same thing. Will you be advised by me? If you will advise me. Speak to no one of this and send White the three pounds that he may think you have lost the bet. That is hard when I want it. Do it for all that sir. Let the disbelievers in human perfectibility know that this dragoon capable of a blush did this virtuous action albeit with violent reluctance and this was his first damper. A week after these events he was at a ball. He was in that state of factitious discontent which belongs to us amiable English. He was looking in vain for a lady equal in personal attraction to the idea he had formed of George Donignor as a man when suddenly there glided past him a most delightful vision a lady whose beauty and symmetry took him by the eyes. Another look. It can't be. Yes, it is. Miss Haythorn. Not that he knew her name but what an apotheosis. The duck had become a peahen, radiant, dazzling. She looked twice as beautiful and almost twice as large as before. He lost sight of her. She looked at her again. She was so lovely she made him ill and he alone must not dance with her, speak to her. If he had been content to begin her acquaintance the usual way it might have ended in kissing. It must end in nothing. As she danced sparks of beauty fell from her on all around but him. She did not see him. Never would see him. One gentleman was particularly assiduous. She smiled on his acidity. He was ugly but she smiled on him. Donignor was surprised at his success, his ill taste, his ugliness, his impertinence. Donignor at last found himself injured. Who was this man and what right had he to go on so? He never kissed her, I suppose, said Dolly. Donignor could not prove it but he felt that somehow the rights of property were invaded. He went home and dreamed of Miss Haythorne and hated all the ugly successful. He spent a fortnight trying to find out who his beauty was. He never could encounter her again. At last he heard of her in this way. A lawyer's clerk paid him a little visit and commenced a little action against him in the name of Miss Haythorne for insulting her in a railway train. The young gentleman was shocked, endeavored to soften the lawyer's clerk. That machine did not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of the term. The lady's name, however, was at last revealed by this untoward incident. From her name to her address was but a short step and the same day our crestfallen hero lay in wait at her door and many a succeeding day without effect. But one fine afternoon she issued forth quite naturally as if she did it every day and walked briskly on the parade. Dollynior did the same, met and passed her many times on the parade and searched the pity in her eyes but found neither look nor recognition nor any other sentiment. For all this she walked and walked till all the other promenaders were tired and gone. Then her culprit summoned resolution and taking off his hat with a voice for the first time tremulous, besought permission to address her. She stopped, blushed, and neither acknowledged nor disowned his acquaintance. He blushed, stammered out how ashamed he was, how he deserved to be punished, how he was punished, how little she knew how unhappy he was and concluded by begging her not to let all the world know the disgrace of a man who was already mortified enough by the loss of her acquaintance. She asked an explanation. He told her of the action that had been commenced in her name. She gently shrugged her shoulders and said how stupid they are. Emboldened by this he begged to know whether or not a life of distant, unpretending devotion would after a lapse of years erase the memory of his madness, his crime. She did not know. She must now bid him adieu as she had some preparations to make for a ball in the crescent where everybody was to be. They parted and Dolignard determined to be at the ball where everybody was to be. He was there and after some time he obtained an introduction to Miss Haythorn and he danced with her. Her manner was gracious. With the wonderful tact of her sex she seemed to have commenced the acquaintance that evening. That night for the first time Dolignard was in love. I will spare the reader all a lover's arts by which he succeeded in dining where she dined, in dancing where she danced, in overtaking her by accident when she rode. His devotion followed her to church where the lagoon was rewarded by learning there is a world where they neither polk nor smoke, the two capital abominations of this one. He made an acquaintance with her uncle who liked him and he saw at last with joy that her eye loved to dwell upon him when she thought he did not observe her. It was three months after the box tunnel that Captain Dolignard called one day upon Captain Haythorn R.N. whom he had met twice in his life and slightly propitiated by violently listening to a cutting-out expedition. He called and in the usual way asked permission to pay his addresses to his daughter. The worthy Captain straight way began doing quarter-deck when suddenly he was summoned from the apartment by a mysterious message. On his return he announced with a total change of voice that it was all right and his visitor might run alongside as soon as he chose. My reader has devined the truth. This nautical commander, terrible to the foe, was in complete and happy subjugation to his daughter, our heroine. As he was taking leave Dolignan saw his divinity glide into the drawing-room. He followed her, observed a sweet consciousness deep into confusion. She tried to laugh and cried instead and then she smiled again. When he kissed her hand at the door it was George and Marion instead of Captain this and Miss the other. A reasonable time after this for my tale is merciful and skips formalities and torturing and delaying. These two were very happy. They were once more upon the railroad going to enjoy their honeymoon all by themselves. Marion Dolignan was dressed just as before duck-like and delicious all bright except her clothes. But George sat beside her this time instead of opposite and she drank him in gently from her long eyelashes. Marion said to George married people should tell each other all will you ever forgive me I own to you know yes yes well then you remember the box tunnel this was the first illusion he had ventured to it I am ashamed to say I had three pounds to ten pounds with white I would kiss one of you two ladies and George pathetic externally chuckled within I know that George I ever heard you in your reply oh you overheard me impossible and did you not hear me whisper to my companion I made a bet with her you made a bet how singular what was it only a pair of gloves George yes I know but what about it that if you did you should be my husband dearest oh but stay then you could not have been so very angry with me love why dearest then you brought that action against me Mrs. Dolinour looked down I was afraid you were forgetting me George you will never forgive me sweet angel why here is the box tunnel now read up no no such thing you can't expect to be indulged in this way every time we come to a dark place besides it is not the thin consider two sensible married people no such phenomenon I assure you took place no scream in hopeless rivalry of the engine this time end of the box tunnel recording by Ruth Golding A cup of tea by Catherine Mansfield this is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recording during the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org A cup of tea by Catherine Mansfield Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful no you couldn't have called her beautiful pretty well if you took her to pieces but why be so cruel as to take anyone to pieces she was young brilliant extremely modern exquisitely well dressed amazingly well read in the newest of the new books and her parties were the most delicious mixture of the really important people and artists quaint creatures discoveries of hers trying for words but others quite presentable and amusing Rosemary had been married for two years she had a duck of a boy no not Peter Michael and her husband absolutely adored her they were rich really rich not just comfortably well off which is audious and stuffy and sounds like one grandparents but if Rosemary wanted to shop she would go to Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street if she wanted to buy flowers the car pulled up at that perfect shop in Regent Street and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in a dazzled rather exotic way and said I want those and those and those give me four bunches of those a jar of roses yes I'll have all the roses in the jar no no lilac I hate lilac it's got no shape the attendant bowed and put a lilac out of sight as though this was only too true lilac was dreadfully shapeless give me those stumpy little tulips those red and white ones and she was followed to the car by thin shop girls with paper armful that looked like a baby and on clothes one winter afternoon she had been buying something in a little antique shop in Curson Street it was a shop she liked for one thing one usually had it to oneself and then the man who captured was a ridiculously fond of serving her he beamed whenever she came in he clasped his hands he was so gratified he could scarcely speak flattery of course all the same there was something you see madame he would explain in his low respectful tones I love my things I would rather not part with them than sell them to someone who does not appreciate them who has not that fine feeling which is so rare and breathing deeply he unrolled a tiny square of blue velvet and pressed it on the glass counter with his pale fingertips today it was a little box he had been keeping it for her he had shown it to nobody as yet an exquisite little animal box with a glaze so fine it looked as though it had been baked in cream on the lid a minute creature stood on the reflowery tree and a more minute creature still had her arms round his neck her hat really no bigger than a geranium paddle hung from a branch it had green ribbons and there was a pink cloud like a watchful syrup floating above their heads rosemary took her hands out of her long gloves she always took off her gloves to examine such things yes, she liked it very much she loved it it was a great duck she must have it and turning the creamy box opening and shutting it she couldn't help noticing how charming her hands were against the blue velvet the shopman in some divin cavern of his mind may have dared to think so too for he took a pencil lent over the counter and his pale bloodless fingers grabbed timidly towards those rosy flashing ones as he murmured gently if I may venture to point out to madam the flowers on the little lady's bodice charming rosemary dwindled the flowers but what was the price for a moment the shopman did not seem to hear then a murmur reached her 28 cunies one 28 guineas rosemary gave no sign she laid the little bugs down she buttoned her gloves again 28 guineas even if one is rich she looked vague she stared at a plump tea kettle like a plump hand above the shopman's head and a voice was dreamy as she answered well keep it for me will you I'll but the shopman had already bowed as though keeping it for her was all any human being could ask you would be willing of course to keep it for her forever the discrete door shut with a click she was outside on the step gazing at the winter afternoon rain was falling and with the rain it seemed the dark came too spinning down like ashes there was a cold bitter taste in the air and the new lighted lamps looked sad sad where the light in the house is opposite dimly they burned as if regretting something and people hurried by hidden under their hateful umbrellas rosemary felt a strange pang she pressed her mouth against her breast she wished she had a little box too to cling to of course the car wasn't there she'd only to cross the pavement but still she waited there are moments horrible moments in life when one emerges from shelter and looks out and it's awful one ought to give way to them one ought to go home and have an extra special tea but at the very instant of thinking that a young girl thin, dark, shadowy where'd she come from while standing at rosemary's elbow and a voice like a sigh almost like a sob breathes madam may I speak to you a moment speak to me rosemary turned she saw a little battered creature with enormous eyes quite young no older than herself who clutched at a coat collar with reddened hands as though she'd just come out of the water madam stammered a voice would you let me have the prize of a cup of tea a cup of tea there was something simple sincere in that voice it wasn't in the least a voice of a beggar that you have no money at all to ask rosemary none madam came the answer how extraordinary rosemary peered through the dusk and the girl gazed back at her how more than extraordinary and suddenly it seemed to rosemary such an adventure it was like something out of a novel by Dostoyevsky this meeting in the dusk supposing she took the girl home supposing supposing she did do one of those things she was always reading about or seeing on the stage what would happen it would be thrilling and she heard herself seeing afterwards to the amazement of her friends I simply took her home with me as she stepped forward and said to that dim person beside her come home to tea with me the girl drew back startled she even stopped shivering for a moment rosemary put out a hand and touched her arm I mean it she said smiling and she felt how simple and kind her smile was why won't you do come home with me now in my car and have tea you don't mean it madam said the girl and there was pain in a voice but I do cried rosemary I want you to please me come along the girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured rosemary you're you're not taking me to the police station she stammered the police station rosemary laughed out why should I be so cruel no I only want to make you warm and to hear anything you care to tell me hungry people are easily led the footman held the door of the car open and a moment later they were skimming through the dusk there said rosemary she had a feeling of triumph as she slipped her hand through the velvet strap she could have said now I've got you as she gazed at a little captive she had nutted but of course she meant it kindly oh more than kindly she was going to prove to this girl that wonderful things did happen in life that very gut mothers were real that rich people had hearts and that women were sisters she turned impulsively saying don't be frightened after all why shouldn't you come back with me we're both women if I'm the more fortunate you ought to expect but happily at that moment to know how the sentence was going to end the car stopped the bell was rung the door opened and with the charming protecting almost embracing movement rosemary drew the other into the hole warmth softness light sweet scent all those things so familiar to her she never even thought about them that other receive it was fascinating she was like the rich little girl in her nursery with all the cupboards to open all the boxes to unpack come, come upstairs such rosemary longing to begin to be generous come up to my room and besides she wanted to spare this poor little thing from being stared at by the servants she decided as they mounted the stairs she would not even ring for Jean but take off her things by herself the great thing was to be natural and there cried rosemary again as they reached a beautiful big bedroom with the curtains drawn the fire leaping on her wonderful lacquer furniture her gourd cushions and the primrose and blue rugs the girls stood just inside the door she seemed dazed but rosemary didn't mind that come and sit down she cried dragging her big chair up to the fire in this comfy chair come and get warm you look so trotfully cold I didn't madam said the girl and she edged backwards oh please rosemary forward you mustn't be frightened you mustn't really sit down and when I've taken off my things we shall go into the next room and have tea and be cozy why are you afraid gently she half pushed a thin figure into its deep cradle but there was no answer the girl stayed just as she had been put with her hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open to be quite sincere she looked rather stupid but rosemary wouldn't acknowledge it she leaned over her saying won't you take off your hat your pretty hair is all wet and one is so much more comfortable without a hat isn't one there was a whisper that sounded like very good madam and the crushed hat was taken off and let me help you off with your coat too said rosemary the girl stood up but she held on to the chair with one hand and let rosemary pull it was quite an effort the odour scarcely helped her at all she seemed to stagger like a child and a thought came and went through rosemary's mind that if people wanted helping they must respond a little just a little otherwise it became very difficult indeed and what was she to do with the coat now she left it on the floor and the hat too she was just going to take a cigarette of the mantah piece when the girl said quickly but so lightly and strangely I I'm very sorry madam but I'm going to faint I shall go off madam if I don't have something good heavens how thoughtless I am rosemary rushed to the bell tea, tea at once and some brandy immediately the maid was gone again but the girl almost cried out no I don't want no brandy I never drink brandy it's a cup of tea I want madam and she burst into tears it was a terrible and fascinating moment rosemary now to beside her chair don't cry poor little thing she said don't cry she gave the odour her lace handkerchief she really was touched beyond words she put her arm round those thin birdlike shoulders now at last the other forgot to be shy forgot everything except that they were both women and gasped out I can't go on no longer like this I can't bear it I can't bear it I shall do away with myself I can't bear no more you shan't have to I look after you don't cry anymore don't you see what a good thing it was that you met me we'll have tea and you'll tell me everything and I shall arrange something I promise do stop crying it's so exhausting please the other girl did stop just in time for rosemary to get up before the tea came she had the table placed between them she applied the pool as a creature with everything all the sandwiches, all the bread and butter and every time her cup was empty she filled it with tea cream and sugar people always said sugar was so nourishing as for herself she didn't eat she smoked and looked away tactfully so that the other should not be shy and really the effect of that slight meal was marvellous when the tea table was carried away a new being a large frail creature with tangled hair dark lips, deep, lighted eyes laid back in the big tank in a kind of sweet langer looking at the blaze rosemary lit a fresh cigarette it was time to begin and when did you have your last meal she asked softly but at that moment the door handle turned rosemary, may I come in it was Philip of course he came in oh I'm so sorry he said and stopped and stared it's quite all right said rosemary smiling this is my friend, Miss Smith Madam said a languid figure who was strangely still and unafraid Smith said rosemary we are going to have a little talk oh yes and his eye caught side of the coat and hat on the floor he came over to the fire and turned his back to it it's a beastly afternoon he said curiously still looking at that listless figure looking at its hands and boots and then at rosemary again yes isn't it said rosemary enthusiastically vile Philip's smile is a charming smile as a matter of fact would you to come into the library for a moment would you will Miss Smith excuse us the big eyes were raised to him but rosemary answered for her of course she will they ran out of the room together I say said Philip when they were alone explain who is she what does it all mean rosemary laughing leaned against the door and said I picked her up in Cousin Street really she's a real pickup she asked me before the prize of a cup of tea and I brought her home with me but what on earth are you going to do with her cried Philip be nice to her said rosemary quickly be frightfully nice to her look after her I don't know how we haven't talked yet show her treat her make her feel my darling girl said Philip you're quite mad you know I knew you said that retorted rosemary why not I want to isn't that a reason and besides one's always reading about these things I decided but said Philip slowly and he cut the end of a cigar she's so astonishingly pretty pretty rosemary was so surprised that she blushed do you think so and thought about it good lord she's absolutely lovely I was bowled over when I came into your room just now however I think you're making a ghastly mistake sorry darling if I'm crude and all that but let me know if Miss Smith is going to dine with us in time for me to look up the Milanist Gazette you absurd creature rosemary and she went out of the library but not back to her bedroom she went to a writing room and sat down at her desk pretty absolutely lovely bowled over her heart beat like a heavy bell pretty lovely she drew her checkbook to water but no checks would be of no use of course she opened a drawer and took out five pound notes looked at them put two back and holding the three squeezed in her hand she went back to her bedroom half an hour later Philip was still in the library when rosemary came in I only wanted to tell you said she and she leaned against the door again and looked at him with a dazzled exotic gaze Miss Smith won't dine with us tonight Philip put down the paper oh what's happened previous engagement rosemary came over and sat down on his knee she insisted on going said she so I gave the poor little thing a present of money I couldn't keep her against her well could I she added softly rosemary had just done her hair darkened her eyes a little and put on her pearls she put up her hands and touched Philip's cheeks do you like me said she and atoned sweet husky troubled him I like you awfully he said and he held her tighter kiss me there was a pause then rosemary said dreamily I saw a fascinating little box today that cost twenty eight guineas may I have it Philip jumped her on his knee knew may little wasteful one said he but that was not really what rosemary wanted to say Philip she whispered and she pressed his head against her bosom am I pretty end of a cup of tea by Catherine Mansfield recorded by Julee from Malachem the end of the battle by Stephen Crane this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or how to volunteer visit LibriVox.org today's reading by David Pitterd Keller, Texas the end of the battle by Stephen Crane a sergeant, a corporal and fourteen men of the 12th regiment of the line have been sent out to occupy a house on the main highway they would be at least a half of a mile in advance of any other picket of their own people Sergeant Morton was deeply angry at being sent on this duty he said he was overworked there were at least two sergeants he claimed furiously whose turn it should have been to go on this arduous mission he was treated unfairly he was abused by his superiors why did any damn fool ever join the army as for him he would get out of it as soon as possible he was sick of it, the life of a dog all this he said to the corporal who listened attentively giving grunts of respectful ascent on the way to this post two privates took occasion to drop to the rear and pilfer in the orchard of a deserted plantation when the sergeant discovered this absence he grew black with rage which was an accumulation of all his irritations run you, he howled bring them here, I'll show them a private ran swiftly to the rear the remainder of the squad began to shout nervously at the two delinquents whose figures they could see in the deep shade of the orchard hurriedly picking fruits from the ground and cramming it within their shirts next to their skins the beseeching cries of their comrades stirred the criminals more than did the barking of the sergeant they ran to join the squad while holding their loaded bosoms and with their mouths open with aggrieved explanations Jones faced the sergeant with a horrible cancer marked in bumps on his left side the disease of Patterson showed quite around the front of his waist in many protuberances the sergeant with sudden frigidity you're the kind of soldiers a man wants to choose for a dangerous outpost duty, ain't you the two privates stood at attention still looking much aggrieved we only began Jones huskily oh, you only cried the sergeant, yes, you only I know all about that but if you think you're going to trifle with me, a moment later the squad moved on towards its station behind the sergeant's back Jones and Patterson were shyly passing apples and pears to their friends while the sergeant expounded eloquently to the corporal you see what kind of man are in the army now why, when I joined the regiment it was a very different thing, I can tell you then a sergeant had some authority and if a man disobeyed orders he had a very small chance of escaping something extremely serious but now, good god if I report these men the captain will look over a lot of thoroughly sheets and say ha, mm, well sergeant Morton, these men seem to have very good records, very good records indeed I can't be too hard on them no, not too hard continue the sergeant, I tell you flagler the army is no place for a decent man Flagler, the corporal, answered with his sincerity of appreciation which with him had become a science I think you're right sergeant he answered the fandom of the privates mumbled discreetly damn this sergeant of ours he thinks we are made of wood I don't see any reason for all this strictness when we are on active service it isn't like being at home in barracks there's no great harm in a couple of men dropping out to raid an orchard of the enemy when all the world knows that we haven't had a decent meal in 20 days the reddened face of sergeant Morton suddenly showed to the rear a little more marching and a little less talking he said when he came to the house he had been ordered to occupy the sergeant sniffed with his stain these people must have lived like cattle he said angrily to be sure the place was not alluring the ground floor had been used for the housing of cattle and it was dark and terrible a flight of steps led to the lofty first floor which was denuded but respectable the sergeant's visage lightened when he saw the strong walls of stone and cement unless they turned their guns on us they will never get us out of here he said cheerfully to the squad the men anxious to keep him in an amiable mood all hurriedly grinned and seemed very appreciative and pleased I'll make this into a fortress he announced he sent Jones and Patterson the two orchard thieves out on sentry duty he worked the others then until he could think of no more things to tell them to do afterwards he went forth with a major general's serious scowl and examined the ground in front of his position in returning he came upon a sentry Jones, munching an apple he sternly commanded him to throw it away the men spread their blankets on the floors of the bare rooms and putting their packs under their heads and lighting their pipes they lived in easy peace bees hummed in the garden and a scent of flowers came through the open window a great fan-shaped bit of sunshine smoked the face of one man and he ended all he cursed as he moved to a place another private explained to a comrade this is all nonsense anyhow no sense in occupying this post they but of course said the corporal and she told me herself that she cared more for me than she did for him I wasn't going to stand any of his talk the corporal's listener was so sleepy that he could only grunt his sympathy there was a sudden little spatter of shooting a cry from Jones rang out with no intermediate scrambling left straight to his feet now he cried, let us see what you were made of if, he added bitterly you're made of anything a man yelled, good god can't you see you're all tangled up in my cartridge belt? another man yelled keep off my legs, can't you walk on the floor? to the windows there was a blind rush of slumbering men who brushed hair from their eyes even as they made ready their rifles Jones and Patterson came stumbling up the steps crying dreadful information already the enemies bullets were spitting and singing over the house the sergeant suddenly was stiff and cold with a sense of the importance of the thing wait until you see one he drawled loudly and calmly then shoot for some moments the enemies bullets swung swifter than lightning over the house without anybody being able to discover a target in this interval a man was shot in the throat he gurgled and lay down on the floor the blood slowly waved down the brown skin of his neck while he looked meekly at his comrades there was a howl there they are there they come the rifles crackled a light smoke drifted oddly through the rooms there was a strong odor is it from burnt paper and the powder of firecrackers the men were silent through the windows and about the house the bullets of an entirely invisible enemy moaned, hummed, spat, burst and sang the men began to curse why can't we see them, they muttered through their teeth the sergeant was still frigid he answered soothingly as if he were directly responsible for this behavior of the enemy wait a moment you'll soon be able to see them there, give it to them a little skirt of black figures that appeared in a field it was really like shooting at an upright needle from the full length of a ballroom but the men's spirits improved as soon as the enemy this mysterious enemy became a tangible thing and far off they had believed the foe to be shooting at them from the adjacent garden now said the sergeant ambitiously we can beat them off easily if you men are good enough a man called out in a tone of quick, great interest see that fellow on horseback, Bill isn't he on horseback I thought he was on horseback there was a fuselage against another side of the house the sergeant dashed into the room which commanded the situation he found a dead soldier on the floor he rushed out howling when was Nals killed when was Nals killed damn it, when was Nals killed it was absolutely essential to find out the exact moment this man had died a blackened private turned upon a sergeant and demanded, how on hell do I know sergeant Morton had a sense of anger so brief that in the next second he cried, Patterson he had even forgotten his vital interest in the time of Nals death yes said Patterson his face set with some deep rooted quality of determination still he was a mere farm boy going to Nals window and shooting at those people said the sergeant orcely afterwards he coughed some of the fumes of the fight had made way to his lungs Patterson looked at the door into this other room he looked at it as if he suspected it was to be his death chamber then he entered and stood across the body of Nals and fired vigorously into a group of plummetries they can't take this house declared the sergeant in a contemptuous and argumentative tone he was apparently replying to somebody the man who had been shot in the throat looked up at him eight men were firing from the windows the sergeant detected in a corner three wounded men talking together feebly don't you think there's anything to do he bawled, go and get Nals cartridge and give them to somebody who can use them tape sentences the man who had been shot in the throat looked at him of the three wounded men who had been talking one said my leg is all doubled up under me sergeant he spoke apologetically meantime the sergeant was reloading his rifle his foot slipped in the blood of the man who had been shot in the throat and the military boot made a greasy red streak on the floor why we can hold this place shouted the sergeant jubilantly who says we can't run away from his window and fell in a heap sergeant murmured a man as he dropped to a seat on the floor out of danger I can't stand this I swear I can't I think we should run away Morton with the kindly eyes of a good shepherd looked at the man you're afraid Johnston you're afraid he said softly the man struggled to his feet cast upon the sergeant a gaze full of admiration reproach and despair and returned to his post a moment later he pitched forward and thereafter his body hung out of the window his arms straight and his fists clenched incidentally his corpse was pierced afterwards by a chance three times by bullets of the enemy the sergeant laid his rifle against the stonework of the window frame and shot with care until his magazine was empty behind him a man simply grazed on the elbow was wildly sobbing like a girl damn it shut up said Morton without turning his head before him was a vista of a garden clumps of trees woods populated at the time with little fleeting figures he grew furious why didn't it send me orders he cried loud the emphasis on the word he was impressive a mile back on the road a galloper of the hasars late dead beside his dead horse a man who'd been grazed on the elbow still set up his bleed Morton's fury veered to this soldier can't you shut up can't you shut up can't you shut up fight that's the thing to do fight a bullet struck Morton and he fell upon the man who'd been shot in the throat there was a sickening moment then the sergeant rolled off to a position upon the bloody floor he turned himself with a last effort and nearly could look at the wounded who were able to look at him came up the kickers he said dickly his arms weakened and he dropped on his face after an interval a young subaltern of the enemy's infantry followed by his eager men burst into this reeking interior but just over the threshold he halted before the scene of blood and death he turned with a shrug to a sergeant God I should have estimated them at least 100 strong end of recording a pretty lady sits half reclining an expensive fluffy fan trembles in her tightly closed fingers a pasnay keeps dropping off her pretty little nose the brooch heaves and falls on her bosom like a boat on the ocean she is greatly agitated on the seat opposite sits the provincial secretary of special commissions a budding young author who from time to time publishes long stories of high life or novelli as he calls them in the leading paper of the province he is gazing into her face gazing intently with the eyes of a connoisseur he is watching studying catching every shade of this exceptional enigmatic creature he understands it he fathoms it her soul her whole psychology lies open before him oh oh I understand I understand you to your inmost depths says the secretary of special commissions kissing her hand near the bracelet your sensitive responsive soul is seeking to escape from the maze of yes the struggle is terrific titanic but do not lose heart you will be triumphant yes write about me Voldemort says the pretty lady with a mournful smile my life has been so full so varied so checkered above all I am unhappy I am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky reveal my soul to the world Voldemort reveal my hapless soul you are a psychologist we have not been on the train an hour together and you have already fathomed my heart tell me I beseech you tell me listen my father was a poor clerk in the service he had a good heart and was not without intelligence but the spirit of the age of his environment you understand I do not blame my poor father he drank gambled took bribes my mother but why say more poverty the struggle for daily bread the consciousness of insignificance do not force me to reveal it I had to make my own way you know the monstrous education at a boarding school the foolish novel reading the errors of early youth the first time flutter of love it was awful the vacillation and the agonies of losing faith in life in oneself ah, you are an author you know us women you will understand unhappily I have an intense nature I looked for happiness and what happiness I longed to set my soul free yes in that was my happiness exquisite creature murmured the author kissing her hand close to the bracelet it's not you I am kissing but the suffering of humanity do you remember Rush Kolnakov and his kiss oh, Voldemort I longed for glory renown success like every why affect modesty every nature above the common place I yearn for something extraordinary above the common lot of women and then and then there crossed my path an old general well off understand me, Voldemort it was self-sacrifice renunciation you must see that I could do nothing else I restored the family fortunes was able to travel to do good yet how I suffered how revolting, how loathing to me were his embraces though I will be fair to him he had fought nobly in his day there were moments terrible moments but I was kept up by the thought that from day to day the old man might die that I would begin to live as I liked to give myself to the man I adored be happy there is such a man Voldemort, indeed there is the pretty lady flutters her fan more violently her face takes a lacrimose expression she goes on but at last the old man is dead he left me something I was free as a bird in the air now is the moment for me to be happy isn't it, Voldemort happiness comes tapping at my window I had only to let it in but Voldemort, listen I implore you now is the time for me to give myself to the man I love to become the partner of his life to help to uphold his ideals to be happy to find rest but how ignoble repulsive and senseless all our life is how mean it is, Voldemort I am wretched wretched wretched again there is an obstacle in my path again I feel my happiness is far far away what anguish if only you knew what anguish but what what stands in your way I implore you tell me what is it another old general very well off the broken fan conceals the pretty little face the author props on his fist his thoughts heavy brow and ponders with the air of a master in psychology the engine is whistling and hissing while the window curtains flush red with the glow of the setting sun end of an enigmatic life redforleaprevox.org by Alan Davis Drake in the public domain the image of the lost soul by Saki 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 Jamie Ash Young there were a number of carved stone figures placed at intervals along the parapets of the old cathedral some of them represented angels others kings and bishops and nearly all were in attitudes of pious exaltation and composure but one figure low down on the cold north side of the building had neither crown miter nor nimbus and its face was hard and bitter and downcast it must be a demon declared the fat blue pigeons that roosted and sunned themselves all day on the ledges of the parapet but the old bell-fried jack-daw who was an authority on ecclesiastical architecture said it was a lost soul and there the matter rested one autumn day there fluttered onto the cathedral roof a slender, sweet-voiced bird that had wandered away from the bare fields and thinning hedgerows in search of a winter roosting place it tried to rest its tired feet under the shade of a great angel wing or to nestle in the sculptured folds of a kingly robe but the fat pigeons hustled it away from wherever it settled and the noisy sparrow folk drove it off the ledges no respectable bird sang with so much feeling they cheaped to one another and the wanderer had to move on only the effigy of the lost soul offered a place of refuge the pigeons did not consider it safe to perch on a projection that leans so much out of the perpendicular and was, besides too much in the shadow the figure did not cross its hands in the pious attitude of the other graven dignitaries but its arms were folded as in defiance and their angle made a snug resting place for the little bird every evening it crept trustfully into its corner against the stone breast of the image and the darkling eyes seemed to keep watch over its slumbers the lonely bird grew to love its lonely protector and during the day it would sit from time to time on some rain shoot or other abutment and trill forth its sweetest music in grateful thanks for its nightly shelter and it may have been the work of wind and weather or some other influence but the wild drawn face seemed gradually to lose some of its hardness and unhappiness every day through the long monotonous hours the song of its little guest would come up and snatches to the lonely watcher and at evening when the Vesper bell was ringing and the great grey bats slid out of their hiding places in the bell fry roof the bright eyed bird would return twitter a few sleepy notes and nestle in the arms that were waiting for him those were the happy days for the dark image only the great bell of the cathedral rang out its daily mocking message after joy sorrow the folk in the verger's lodge noticed a little brown bird flitting about the cathedral precincts and admired its beautiful singing but it is a pity said they that all that warbling should be lost and wasted far out of hearing up on the parapet they were poor but they understood the principles of political economy so they caught the bird and put it in a little wicker cage outside the lodge door that night the little songster was missing from its accustomed haunt and the dark image knew more than ever the bitterness of loneliness perhaps his little friend had been killed by a prowling cat or hurt by a stone perhaps perhaps he had flown elsewhere but when morning came there floated up to him through the noise and bustle of the cathedral world a faint heart aching message from the prisoner in the wicker cage far below and every day at high noon when the fat pigeons were stupefied into silence after their midday meal and the sparrows were washing themselves in the street puddles the song of the little bird came up to the parapets a song of hunger and longing and hopelessness a cry that could never be answered the pigeons remarked between mealtimes that the figure leaned forward more than ever out of the perpendicular one day no song came up from the little wicker cage it was the coldest day of winter and the pigeons and sparrows on the cathedral roof looked anxiously on all sides for the scraps of food which they were dependent on in hard weather have the lodge folk thrown out anything onto the dust heap inquired one pigeon of another which was peering over the edge of the north parapet only a little dead bird was the answer there was a crackling sound in the night on the cathedral roof and a noise as a falling masonry the bell fried jackdaw said the frost was affecting the fabric and as he had experienced many frosts it must have been so in the morning it was seen that the figure of the lost soul had toppled from its cornice and now lay in a broken mass on the dust heap outside the verger's lodge it is just as well cooed the fat pigeons after they had peered at the matter for some minutes now we shall have a nice angel put up there certainly they will put an angel there after joy sorrow rang out the great bell end of the image of the lost soul Monday or Tuesday by Virginia Woolf this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Monday or Tuesday lazy and indifferent shaking space easily from his wings known his way the heroine passes over the church beneath the sky light and distant absorbed in itself endlessly the sky covers and uncovers moves and remains a lake blots the shores out of it a mountain or perfect the sun gold on its slopes hopes down that falls ferns then are white feathers forever and ever desiring truth awaiting it laboriously distilling a few words forever desiring a cry starts to the left another to the right wheels strike divergently omnibuses conglomerate in conflict forever desiring the clock a severates with twelve distinct strokes that is midday light sheds gold scales children swarm forever desiring truth red is the dome coins hang on the trees smoke trails from the chimneys bark shout cry iron for sale and truth radiating to appointments feet in women's feet black or gold encrusted this foggy weather sugar no thank you the commonwealth of the future the firelight darting and making the room red save for the black figures in their bright eyes while outside of the end discharges this thing that me drinks tea at her desk and plate glass preserves fur coats flaunted leaf light drifting at corners blown across the wheels silver splashed home or not home gathered scattered squandered in separate scales swept up down torn sunk assembled and truth now to recollect by the fireside on the white square of marble from ivory depth words rising shed their blackness blossom and penetrate fall in the book in the flame in the smoke in the momentary sparks or now voyaging marble square pendant minarets beneath in the indian seas while space rushes blue and stars glint truth content with closeness lasing indifferent the heron returns the sky veils her stars then bears them end of monday or tuesday